The Gift of Death
by HardlyFatal
Summary: Book 1 of 4 of Between the Shadow and the Soul. REVAMPED through chapter 9 with more to come. COMPLETE
1. Chapter 11

The Gift of Death, Part 11

The next morning, in spite of the brightly shining sun and clear sky, was somber and drear as two groups prepared for their journeys: one consisting of women, small children, and very old people, were being clucked over by Eowyn and Dawn as they rushed about helping everyone prepare for the trek to Dunharrow. Dawn wore her sturdy cargo pants, the myriad pockets of which were stuffed with all sorts of handy items—bandages, medicines, small knives, a packet of lembas Legolas gave her. 

"Gotta get me a pair of those," Buffy muttered to herself as she strove to find somewhere handy to secret her own stash of miscellany, but leather trousers, linen tunic, and wool cloak were not conducive to storage. She was a member of the second group. Its ranks were entirely male, with the sole exception of Buffy, and she was saddened to see how very young some of them were.

"Beardless youths," Boromir murmured beside her. "And elders well past their prime. We have come to a pitiable state, indeed."

"Where is Aragorn?" Buffy asked, scanning the group but not seeing the ranger

"He is in the stables with Gandalf, moaning over Theoden's poor choices," Boromir answered wryly. "They believe going to Helms Deep is a disastrous move, but the king shall not be swayed."

"Is that Shadowfax?" Buffy asked suddenly, pointing to the distance where a luminous silvery-white blur was heading east. 

Boromir squinted against the sunlight. "Aye, I think is it. Where does Gandalf go at this time?" 

Aragorn was trudging up the hill to them. "He goes to see what others he can rouse to the fight," he told them, and looked impossibly weary, his handsome face tired and lined with responsibility.

Buffy squeezed his arm and smiled at him. "I'm with you, Strider. To the end."

He attempted a smile of his own. "And that means much to me, Dagnir. Glad I am that you joined us on Caradhras, and have been with us since."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

Finally it was time for the two groups to depart, and Dawn bid her sister and her lover farewell with tears in her eyes. "Take care of each other," she told them, hugging them fiercely. "If you die, I'll kill you."

"I will not die," Boromir told her. "For how can you wed a dead man? Tis impossible, I am told." And, without giving her time to respond, he swung up onto his horse and trotted away, grinning hugely.

Dawn stared after him, then turned to see her sister beaming at her. "Not the most romantic proposal I've ever heard," she grumbled, cheeks becomingly flushed pink.

"Oh, I don't know," Buffy replied, her head tilted to one side, considering. "I kinda liked it."

Dawn rolled her eyes. "You would," she shot back. "You're weird. You like elves."

Buffy's eyes sought and located Legolas, looking impossibly gorgeous as he helped load supplies. His graceful movements, even when lifting a heavy box and plunking it without ceremony into the back of a crude wagon, stole her breath even as the gleam of his pale hair in the sunlight dazzled her eyes. As if he felt her gaze on him, he looked up and caught her watching him, and gave her a tiny smile that promised much.

"Yeah," she said at last. "I really, really do."

*

They were almost to Helms Deep when Aragorn decided to do some scouting. Buffy insisted on going with him. "If you die, we're screwed," she told him flatly, and he sighed, knowing she was right. She gave Legolas a glance of farewell, and off they rode.

"Stop," she shouted after a while, and they halted their mounts. "Wait." She closed her eyes and extended her senses the way Giles had taught her so long ago, listening and feeling. Slowly, things became clearer to her: the whisper of the wind over the grasses, the sound of the horses' breathing, even the faint thump of Aragorn's heartbeat. And… in the distance…

"An army," Buffy said at last, her face blanching as her eyes flew open to look at Aragorn. 

"How many?" he asked, apprehensive.

"Thousands," she whispered in horror. The sheer magnitude of the battle they would fight threatened to overwhelm her, and she swallowed hard to contain the jolt of panic that rose in her belly. "Tens of thousands. And they are closing fast."

"Eru," Aragorn breathed. "We are lost." He looked as disheartened as a man could look; as if he were mere moments away from catatonia. Having once enjoyed that state herself, however briefly, when Dawn had been taken by Glory all those years ago, Buffy knew it was essential to keep her friend's despair at bay, or else it would conquer him as no orc or Uruk-hai ever could.

Pushing back her fear, she forced her face into what she hoped was a neutral-but-encouraging expression. "There's still Gandalf," she reminded him as convincingly as she could, but she wasn't so very sure herself. "As long as we're still alive, anything could happen. There is always hope."

He stared at her a long moment, and then nodded firmly. Without a word, they wheeled their horses and pelted toward Helms Deep. They arrived not long after the others, and found Theoden arguing with Boromir, Gimli, and Legolas about their defenses. Theoden was of the opinion that the Deeping Wall, a tall and broad structure guarding the entrance to the cave-fortress beyond, was impenetrable and no reinforcements were needed.

Boromir was trying, without success, to convince the king of Rohan that these were not ordinary orcs. "These are Uruk-hai! They are smarter, faster, stronger! And we a force of but 400, and many of them children!"

Theoden was far from convinced. "Who will come to help us? Elves? Dwarves?" His contemptuous glance raked over Legolas and Gimli. "They will not answer the call."

"Gondor will come," Boromir told him angrily, face flushing in anger.

  
"As it came when the Westfold was attacked?" Theoden sneered. "No, fair lord, we are alone." He saw Aragorn and Buffy approach then. "A handful of men, some children, and a woman. Rohan has reached its final hour." With this parting shot, he stalked away to join a group of his men across the hall.

"Ain't he a ray of sunshine?" Buffy muttered. "Jerk." Then she sighed, watching as the men and boys of Rohan were outfitted with armour and weapons. "I'm glad Dawn's not here to see this."

"As am I," Aragorn agreed. "It is no place for her, her light would dim." Buffy smiled a little at this unexpected poetry, and looked where he pointed at a young boy, his shoulders hunched and face pale with fear. "Like his does." He walked to the boy. "What is your name, child?"

"Haleth, son of Hama, my Lord," the boy replied nervously. "The men are saying that we will not live out the night. They say that it is hopeless..."

Aragorn placed a hand on Haleth's shoulder, and glanced back at where Buffy stood watching them, her form silhouetted in the sun and her hair gleaming gold. "There is always hope." 

_Damn, but the man was amazing_, she thought in admiration. No matter how depressing things got, he was just… indefatigable. For the first time in a long time, perhaps since meeting the elves of Lorien, she felt the fine, strong glow of friendship burn in her for Aragorn. He was very different from her old friends back in Sunnydale, but what had made her love Willow and Xander so fiercely were the same characteristics Aragorn displayed so consistently: strength, courage, resilience. She realized, with a start, that she loved him, loved him like a brother, like a Scooby, and knew without a doubt she'd die for him. 

She smiled brilliantly at Aragorn, making him wonder what had her so cheerful all of a sudden, and walked away.

*

"Dagnir, I still say it is foolishness for you to be without armour," Gimli said for the fourth time. He himself had added a too-long shirt of mail to his usual outfit of helm, bracers, and shield. Aragorn was buckling himself into plate armour, and glanced up to watch the discussion.

"Slows me down too much," she told him for the fourth time, not lifting her eyes from where she sat sharpening her sword. "Besides, it would be a waste, when someone else could wear it. It's not like I can really die, after all." She glanced up at Legolas, who stood leaning against the wall and watching her with a faint smile. "How come you haven't weighed in on this discussion?" she asked him. "I bet you'd just let a girl go off to her doom."

"Not just any girl," he replied with a smirk. "You're special." She grinned at him and the others rolled their eyes.

Suddenly, they both became alert. "You heard a horn?" Buffy asked Legolas, who nodded. 

"That is no orc horn!" he told them, and they all ran outside to the battlement, Gimli tripping over the hem of his mail shirt, to find the guards gazing down in shock.

"Send for the king!" a guard shouted. "Open the gates!"

Buffy lost patience with trying to look over the wall and leapt nimbly onto the parapet. "Holy shit!" she exclaimed, drawing not a few glances to her. "It's Haldir!" she said with delight. "He's leading a pile of Lorien elves!" Hooting happily, she waved down at the march-warden, who calmly lifted a hand in reply.

"How is this possible?" Theoden gasped, out of breath from running from the caves. 

"I bring word from Elrond of Rivendell," Haldir told the king, alighting from his horse. "An Alliance once existed between Elves and Men. Long ago we fought and died together." He looked up to see Buffy, Aragorn, Boromir, Legolas, and Gimli running down the steps, and smiled. "We come to honor that allegiance."

"I love elves!" Buffy yelled, and flung herself at him. He hugged her back, then put her gently away from him with an amused expression when he saw the glare Legolas was leveling upon him. 

"Mae govannon, Haldir!" Aragorn said, and surprised the elf by pulling him into a big bear hug. Haldir was startled, but after a moment, haltingly returned it. "You are welcome."

Buffy returned to Legolas' side and he wrapped a proprietary arm around her waist before regaining his good humour and clapping Haldir on the shoulder with his free hand, grinning. 

"So this is how it is," Haldir murmured to Legolas while Buffy was occupied in teasing Gimli about his mail shirt. "It does not surprise me." At Legolas expression, he elaborated. "Long have I known that you and she would be a fine pair. I was not eager to see you meet, if I be honest. But I see it is what the Valar have fated, and even I cannot thwart them."

"Not even you, Guardian of Lorien?" Legolas murmured, just the faintest hint of mockery in his dulcet voice.

Haldir glanced down his nose at the Mirkwood elf, then pointedly turned to Theoden again. "We are proud to fight alongside Men once more." 

Then he said to Buffy and frowned. "Should you not be wearing armour?" 


	2. Chapter 12

-The Gift of Death, Part 12

The day dragged torturously, and in spite of the coming battle, the combined forces of Rohan and the remnants of the Fellowship were almost relieved when it was over and twilight turned blue the plain stretching out before the Deeping Wall.

Night fell finally and hard, and the torches of the approaching army of Uruk-hai came steadily closer. Up on the wall, Gimli and Buffy both strained to see what was happening. She leapt up onto the parapet as she had before, but Boromir neatly plucked her down. 

"You make yourself a tempting target, Dagnir," he told her. "Climb on my back if you need to see that badly, else Dawn will never forgive me." So she did, propping her elbows on his shoulders as she peered over his head. 

Gimli, however, had no such offers, and continued to hop up and down for a glimpse. "What's happening out there?" he demanded petulantly.

"Shall I describe it to you?" Legolas asked, grinning. "Or shall I fetch you a box?"

Gimli poked the elf in the leg, and laughed while Buffy looked at him with sympathy. "Being short sucks," she said, and he nodded firmly.

Just then, an older man lost his grip on his nocked arrow and let it fly, where it hit the neck of an Uruk in the front of Saruman's army. A hush fell over both sides, the very air seeming to still, and Buffy was convinced that time slowed as she watched the Uruk clap a hand to its neck, then sink with agonizing slowness to its knees, finally falling onto its face. For a second that felt like an hour, the Uruk-hai turned to face the Hornburg, and as one, began screaming in rage. 

Then they charged.

"So it begins," Theoden said grimly, and Buffy leapt down from Boromir's back and grabbed the bow she'd leant against the parapet. On Aragorn's command, she, Legolas, Haldir, and the other archers fired, and many Uruk-hai fell to the ground. Their fellows merely stepped over them, and continued to advance.

Volley after volley of arrows flew into the masses, and hundreds fell, but were instantly replaced by more behind them. The archers continued to shoot even as ladders were raised, and Uruks started to climb. 

"Just keep shooting!" Buffy screamed. "Shoot them off the ladders!" Those who could hear her obeyed, but further down the wall they had dropped their bows and pulled out their blades in preparation for hand-to-hand combat. Gimli was already rushing down the wall, eager to dampen his axe with Uruk blood.

"Dammit," she groaned, and thrust her bow and quiver into the hands of a nearby soldier. "Keep shooting them off the ladders!" she told him, and yanked her sword from the scabbard while dashing after the dwarf. 

"Legolas, two already!" Gimli shouted over the noise as he killed another.

"I'm on seventeen!" Legolas replied happily, and loosed two more arrows into the throats of a pair of Uruks about to attack Theoden. "Nineteen!"

"You're counting?" Buffy asked in amazement, her sword thrusting through an Uruk's chest. She pulled it out with a gruesome sucking noise and turned to the next, neatly lopping his head off. "You two are unbelievable."

"You're just jealous," Gimli said, taking down his fourth.

"Hah!" Buffy huffed. "Jealous of what? I've already taken down twenty-three."

Gimli was outraged. "I'll not have an elf and a human outscoring me!" And he made his axe flash impressively as he slashed, taking down three more in quick succession before scrambling up onto a parapet between two ladders and swinging with glee, knocking Uruks off left and right. "Eighteen! Nineteen! Twenty! Twenty-one! Twenty-two!"

"What is that there, Aragorn?" Boromir shouted above the din, pointing with his sword to a small group of Uruk-hai huddled under the causeway. Aragorn peered at them, saw one holding a special kind of torch. 

"Legolas, bring him down!" he yelled, and Legolas spun to shoot the Uruk in the neck just as he had felled thirty-seven others, but with a strange gleam in his piggy little eyes, the creature lurched to his feet and continued his run toward the culvert. "Kill him!" Aragorn screamed, and Legolas fired again.

But the Uruk didn't seem to even notice the second arrow piercing his throat, and with a final effort, tripped and fell into the culvert, torch in outstretched arm just reaching whatever it was that the others had been stuffing under the causeway.

Immediately, there was an enormous explosion, and rock and men flew in all directions as a considerable portion of the Deeping Wall was blown away. Theoden stared in shock, unaware that Aragorn was flung back from the force of the explosion and lay limply on the ground, unconscious. 

"Brace the gate," he whispered, then repeated in a shout, "Brace the gate! Hold them! Stand fast!"

Boromir pushed his way through the men and started slapping Aragorn in the face, trying to rouse him. "You must wake!" he yelled at the ranger. "I cannot find Dagnir or Gimli!"

Legolas spun around at that. "Where were they last?"

"They jumped down off the wall onto the Uruks who flooded in," Boromir said, no small amount of pride in his voice. "Just as I expected. She is truly insane, and he is a dwarf."

Legolas frowned, pulling out his daggers, and ran to the edge of the wall, killing two Uruks in his way almost idly as he peered into the chaos below. It was a roiling mass of bodies, all struggling against each other… there, was that an axe? 

"Forty-one!" howled a voice. "My axe drinks deeply this night!" 

Gimli was fine, then. But what of Buffy? He scanned the scene anxiously, and suddenly Buffy flew upwards to stand on the shoulders of one of the Uruks. "Take my sword, will ya?" she demanded, and reached down to twist his head off his shoulders; leaping lightly down again, she grabbed her sword from his grubby hand before it could hit the ground.

Then she grabbed the Uruk's sword for good measure, and set to using both blades against the enemy surrounding her. Legolas grinned and turned back to Aragorn, who with Boromir was making decent headway against another wave climbing up the ladders.

"Aragorn, fall back to the keep!" Theoden told him, and began motioning toward the great doors. "Get your men out of there!"

"Pull back to the keep!" Aragorn shouted. "Haldir, to the keep!"

Haldir nodded and began telling his elves to fall back. Gimli was reluctant to leave the place of his success, and had to be dragged backwards from the courtyard, struggling and protesting all the way.

Haldir hacked at the Uruk-hai as he turned toward the keep entrance, but one sword got past his defense and stabbed his shoulder, making him drop his sword. Crying out in pain, he was barely able to raise his shield to block another thrust.

Buffy's sensitive ears recognized the sound of her friend's distress, and she began to shove her way through the retreating men. "Dagnir!" Legolas yelled, reaching out to grab her, but she ignored him and threaded herself nimbly through the masses of fighting bodies. Three steps at a time, she dashed up the stairs to the remains of the wall and with the sword in her right hand lopped off the head of one of the Uruks attacking Haldir, while stabbing another through the throat with the second sword. 

The last Uruk was advancing on Haldir where he slumped against the parapet, unconscious. "Crap, not again," Buffy said tiredly, and flung herself in front of the march-warden just in time to take the vicious slice across the belly that had been meant for her friend. 

Her vision narrowed almost immediately to pinpoints, and with her last moments of awareness she was able to shove a sword into the Uruk's chest before collapsing against Haldir. "Dagnir?" he moaned, waking.

"You owe me," she gasped, and died.

Haldir knew of her immortality, so his expression was not of grief, but of determination. He lurched to his feet and, wrapping his arm around her waist, draped her over his uninjured shoulder before staggering down the steps. 

Legolas was struggling to make his way to them, but the Rohirrim guards were fighting to shove him inside the keep. At the sight of Buffy slung like a sack of parsnips over her former lover's shoulder—he emphasized the word **former** to himself in order to keep his temper—he broke free of them and raced to Haldir. 

"She is dead?" Legolas demanded. "Again?" He snatched Buffy from the march-warden, who allowed the guards to yank him inside. Legolas just frowned at them, and they let him walk in under his own power, the tiny woman cradled tenderly in his arms.

They made their way down the corridor toward the great hall of the keep, Haldir clutching his hand over his seeping wound. "What do you mean, again?" he asked breathlessly, "Did she die since last I saw her?"

"Saving Boromir, yes," Legolas replied shortly. "I do not like how she values herself so little that she squanders her life for others." They arrived at the hall, and he reluctantly permitted Aragorn to take Buffy and begin to clean her up while Gimli wrung his hands and fluttered uselessly nearby. Unless his elvish ears were mistaken—and he deeply doubted that was possible—the dwarf was muttering, "Oh dear, oh dear" repeatedly, thus lending credence to Legolas' suspicion that Gimli was slowly turning into a maiden aunt.

Haldir eyed his fellow elf a long moment before slumping to the floor and waving over one of his elf-archers to tend his wound. "I can see you know that she will return from death," he said slowly, wincing as his armour was removed and his tunic cut away from the injury. "Do you understand how she has longed for it to claim her? For how long? That it is a goal that lays shining and golden, beckoning to her with all the seductiveness of the One Ring itself?"

Legolas winced at that; as an elf, it was utterly foreign to actually desire death. To  pursue it, to treat it as friend instead of foe, was anathema. "We have talked about it, but…" his voice trailed off uncertainly.

"But ever have you failed to understand the depth of her commitment to this gift of hers," Haldir finished for him, and hissed when a foul-smelling solution was poured over his shoulder to cleanse the wound of dirt. "She sees it as the end of all her woes, all her suffering, and loneliness, and guilt. You do not know all of Dagnir if you do not understand her quest for oblivion, Legolas," the march-warden said through clenched teeth. "You must learn to embrace even this part of her, or you will drive her away."

The healer was approaching with another bottle, and Haldir actually blanched. Legolas knelt and placed a fold of his own cloak between Haldir's teeth, wincing in sympathy when the other elf bit down ferociously against the pain of the caustic liquid poured into the gaping hole in his flesh, causing it to knit instantly, but with immense pain. Haldir jerked and then was still, falling abruptly unconscious.

Legolas carefully moved Haldir to lay on his back on a pallet, arranging his limbs comfortably and even brushing a stray strand of hair from the other elf's fair forehead. "Your brand of honesty is brutal, Guardian," he murmured. He stood and took a deep breath, staring over at where Aragorn was finishing up with Buffy, having washed her up a bit and lain her on a pallet of her own. "But if there ever were a time when brutality was needed, this be it."

*

Theoden paced in the hall of the keep, his face etched with discouragement. "So much death," he sighed. "What can men do against such reckless hate?"

Aragorn's gaze flicked over his companions. Legolas and Boromir were flanking Buffy's still-limp form where it lay on a pallet on the floor, and Gimli was sharpening his axe with grim determination. Haldir sat across the room, awake once more and almost returned to peak health after the drastic remedy used by his healer, and shooting the odd glance Buffy's way every once in a while.

As Aragorn watched, a faint glow suffused Buffy's body, and a barely perceptible motion of her chest made him smile. "There is always hope," he murmured. Then, "Ride out with me."

Theoden turned and stared at him in disbelief and growing interest. "What say you?"

"Ride out with me, and meet them," Aragorn said, stepping forward, his hand out in entreaty. Gimli looked up then, and smiled grimly at the idea of confronting the enemy, instead of sitting there waiting for ruin to come to them.

Theoden's eyes lit with determination. "For death, and glory."

How had this man lasted as king so many years? Aragorn wondered. Theoden was as heedlessly passionate and impetuous as a child. He shook his head. "No. For Rohan. For your people."

"Yes!" Theoden said, pounding his fist into the palm of his other hand. "Yes! The horn of Helm Hammerhand shall sound in the Deep one last time!"

"Yes!" bellowed Gimli, caught up in the moment, and ran to the mouthpiece of the massive horn, blowing it with gusto. The sound rumbled and echoed through the keep, making even the walls quiver. 

"Now that's what I call a wake-up call!" Buffy said, propping herself up on one elbow and pushing hair from her face. She looked up at Theoden's astonished face. "What's all the hubbub, bub?"

"You are well?" Legolas inquired quietly, helping her to her feet. 

"Never better!" she replied, and stood on tiptoes to brush a quick kiss over his face. He didn't flinch, exactly, but something flickered over his face that made her study him briefly before asking, "How's Haldir?"

"I am fine," said that elf from behind her. She turned to him, and he bowed. "I thank you for my life, and wish it had not been at the cost of your own."

"Don't mention it," Buffy demurred with a grin. "My life is pretty damned cheap these days. I'm like a bad penny, you can't get rid of me."

"For which we are thankful, Lady," Theoden said, his eyes still wide. "Can you ride?"

Buffy strapped on her swords. "Oh, yeah," she said, the light of battle in her eyes. "Let's kick some hiney." She glanced at the light streaming in the window, then at Aragorn. "Sunrise on the fifth day," she reminded him softly. "Think Gandalf will come through?"

He shrugged. "I have to believe so," he told her. "There is nothing else."

She nodded, and hugged him. He helped her onto a horse, then mounted his own. Boromir was already seated on Timon, and Gimli clambered onto Arod behind Legolas.

Theoden looked around and put on his helm. Satisfied all were ready, he raised his sword. "Let this be the hour when we draw swords together. Fell deeds awake. Now for wrath! Now for ruin! And a red dawn!" With that, the doors were flung wide and they rode out, weapons flashing in the early morning sunlight. Gimli was having a tough time of it, trying to swing his axe and grip onto Legolas at the same time, so Buffy stuck close to them. 

"Gandalf!" she heard Aragorn cry, and looked over to see a white rider on a gleaming silver horse atop the ridge bounding the causeway. 

"Eomer is with him!" shouted Theoden. 

"To the king!" they heard Eomer call, and the Rohirrim and the White Rider charged down the hill. 

Surrounded on two sides by mounted warriors, the Uruk-hai's victory to this point turned, and as more and more of their number fell to the eager blades of Man and Elf (and Dwarf) alike, they began to flee. 

"Toward the forest!" Gandalf instructed, and they corralled the retreating Uruks toward the dark and mysterious woods that had somehow appeared overnight. Thinking to escape, the Uruk-hai ran to it eagerly, and soon disappeared into its depths.

"Victory! We have victory!" Theoden yelled, waving his sword joyously over his head, uncaring that black blood showered from it onto the heads of those around him. 

Gandalf leaned wearily over the neck of Shadowfax. "Sauron's wrath will be terrible, his retribution swift," he intoned. "The battle for Helm's Deep is over, the battle for Middle-earth is about to begin. All our hopes now lie with two little Hobbits, somewhere in the wilderness."


	3. Chapter 13

The Gift of Death, Part 13

Buffy wasn't thrilled to be woken early the next morning, but Gandalf wanted to go to Isengard and see how that area fared. "I hate mornings," she grumbled, shooing away Aragorn who was nudging her with his foot. "When this is over, I'm gonna sleep for a year."

"By the time this is over, you'll need to," he replied, grabbing her hand and tugging her up. "Come now, awaken. Gandalf wants to go to Isengard. We must ride."

She was still rubbing sleep from her eyes when they mounted and headed north. By midmorning they were at the fords of Isen, and the sun was still high in the sky when they arrived at Isengard. The devastation of the trees brought tears to Legolas' eyes, and the smoke still rising from the rushing of the river into the fiery pits dug into the earth made Buffy's own eyes water.

She'd been wondering at Legolas' behaviour since she woke from her latest death, how he had retreated into a guise of polite distance, where his smiles were courteous but held none of the warmth she'd become accustomed to. It was as if they were back to where they'd been in Moria, when he'd watched much and said little. 

Buffy was not ashamed to admit that she was hurt by it, and more than a little confused. Was he mad at her for dying again? Or was it because she'd died for Haldir, of whom it was clear he was more than a little jealous? Aragorn had not noticed, she knew, but Gimli seemed more upset about it than she, and kept casting worried glances at the elf. For her part, Buffy just kept her distance and her silence from Legolas, though she was unable to stop herself from looking his way, so used to letting her gaze roam over him.

"Who stands at the doors to the tower?" Boromir said, shielding his eyes against the afternoon sun to peer more closely at the base of Orthanc and jolting Buffy out of her gloomy reverie. 

"It's Pippin and Merry!" exclaimed Legolas joyfully.

She squinted, then gaped. "And… they're having a picnic. That doesn't make any sense." She turned to Aragorn. "Did I take a head shot yesterday, in addition to dying?"

He laughed. "Hobbits are always able to locate a feast, wherever they find themselves," he told her. "My heart sings to know they are safe."

They rode swiftly to Orthanc, and the Hobbits leapt to their feet when they recognized the riders who approached. "Welcome to the field of battle, milords," Merry greeted them, his eyes sparkling with humour. Holding his arms wide as he bowed, goblet of wine in one hand, half-eaten apple in the other, he continued, "I am the Lord Saruman's doorwarden; be welcome."

"Indeed," Gandalf said with equal humour, and Pippin whispered "Gandalf!" with joy in his voice. The wizard nodded benignly at the Hobbit, and Pippin stuffed a fist in his mouth to keep from sobbing with relief that Gandalf wasn't actually dead.

"The Lord Saruman is within," Merry said importantly, continuing his jesting role, "but at the moment he is closeted with one Wormtongue, or doubtless he would be here to welcome such honourable guests."

Theoden and Gandalf decided speak with the Ents, especially the one the Hobbits called Treebeard, and investigate the extent of the damage; the others gave in to the Hobbits' urging and partook of the feast before them, and Gimli and Aragorn even joined Merry and Pippin in smoking some pipeweed. 

"That stuff'll kill you," Buffy told them mildly, and chucked a pear at Pippin's head when he retorted, "Then why do you not smoke it? I thought that death was your fondest wish?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "You've missed a lot, buddy. I've died twice since you saw me last."

"Is that so?" Merry said around the stem of his pipe. "I am impressed; you are looking considerably fine for a corpse." He leaned to the side, dodging the persimmon that came flying his way. "As are you," he told Gandalf, who had appeared in the doorway to the storage room where they took their leisure.

"I will have a parley with Saruman," the wizard told them without preamble. "Be you on guard, for he has a wily and treacherous tongue."

*

"What a jerk," Buffy whispered to Boromir an hour later. Saruman had hurled seductive pleas and promises as well as insults, mockeries, threats, and everything else he could think of at them. 

Gandalf was still trying to be civil and mannerly, but even Gandalf's patience came to an end, and he shouted up at the balcony where Saruman stood in his tower-prison, "I am no longer Gandalf the Grey, but Gandalf the White, and I dismiss you from the council of wizards!" There was a flash of light, and Saruman's staff cracked in two, the head falling from the balcony to land with a thud at Gandalf's feet. 

A shriek of fury came from behind Saruman, sounding thready and feeble from such a distance, and then a round black object came hurtling over the balcony at them. Gandalf sidestepped it neatly, and it landed harmlessly to roll by Pippin, who tried to pick it up.

"Heavy," he muttered, needing both hands to lift it.

"Come," Gandalf said to his companions, his voice weary as he snatched the ball of what seemed to be shiny, opaque black glass from the Hobbit. "We leave now. Once we are out of this valley, the Ents will flood the city once more and make sure Saruman does not leave Orthanc."

They made camp at the end of the valley, and Buffy promptly fell asleep after another hearty meal served up by the halflings. She was awoken just a few hours later by the sound of voices.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice low and urgent at the sight of Gandalf's grave and angry expression. Pippin stood shaking before the wizard, his face both shamed and frightened as he whispered over and over, "Forgive me, forgive me."

"This is a Palantir," Gandalf told them. "It was created long ago, to allow distant people to communicate. This Hobbit, in his curiosity, thought to examine it, but it examined him, did it not, young Took?" His look, while not unkind, only made Pippin shake harder. "Take it," he said to Aragorn, holding the Palantir out to him. "It is yours by rights." Aragorn reached out slowly, almost reluctantly, but grasped the dark sphere.

Buffy shivered; once more, she had jumped from her bedroll without pants. "Are you sure you want that thing, Strider?" she asked him, her voice low and urgent. "It's giving me the wiggins."

He frowned momentarily at her odd phrasing but seemed to understand what she meant. "I think I can make it work for us, not against us," he told her at last, eyes locking with hers. She stared back, her gaze searching. She seemed to find what she was looking for, because she nodded briskly and began complaining about getting back to sleep. But an echoing cry resounded from above, and a dark winged shape flew overhead in the direction of Isengard. 

"Nazgûl," Aragorn said resignedly, and passed his hand over his forehead in the universal sign of weariness.

"There is no time to wait for sunrise, we ride now!" cried Gandalf. The camp was disbanded quickly, and within minutes they were mounted once more. "Pippin, with me, that I might be sure you suffer no ill effects from the Palantir."

They had not travelled far before Legolas frowned in concentration. "We are being followed," he told Aragorn. "At least a score, on horseback."

"Take what ease you may," Theoden was saying. "We wait to see who follows." Ease was not on their minds, however, but defense; all began to ready themselves for attack. 

Their pursuers turned out to be, not more forces from Saruman, but thirty rangers of Dunedain—kinsman of Aragorn and Buffy. They greeted Aragorn warmly, but as they had never quite understood why a woman would want to be one of their number, they were much more restrained in their salute to the Dagnir.

With them were Elrond's twin sons, Elrohir and Elladon, with a message from their father to Aragorn. "The days are short. If you are in haste, remember the Paths of Dead."

Aragorn blanched, but nodded. Halbarad, their leader, handed over a staff wrapped round with black cloth and bound tightly with leather straps. "The Undomiel made this for you, Strider, and bid me give it into your hands."

Though the others watched curiously, Aragorn did not unwrap the banner, merely holding it reverently as if afraid to soil it with his dirty hands, staring to the north where he knew his love to be before recovering himself and turning to Buffy as he gave it back to Halbarad to keep for him. "Still unimpressed with true love, Dagnir?" he asked her. His face seemed to have rejuvenated several years, and his eyes shone brighter than they'd been in months.

She looked toward Legolas, who was pretending to ignore their conversation, his beautiful face carefully blank, and felt something die within her. It was hope, she realized, and laughed. It was a harsh and ugly sound, carrying clearly around them, as did her next words. "More than ever, Strider. More than ever."

And she clucked her tongue at her horse and rode into the night, not at all caring if they followed or not.

*

They caught her up within a few hours, and it was a weary group who arrived at the capital city of Rohan that evening, and Buffy was yawning yet again when she heard her name called. Then a blue blur was engulfing her in a fervent hug. 

"Buffy!" Dawn cried. "I was so worried when Haldir came back without you! I'm so glad you're back! And not dead again!" Beside them, Gimli coughed. Dawn frowned, peering closely at Buffy, who avoided her eyes, instead glaring at the dwarf for causing trouble. "You didn't!" She turned to Boromir, who stood waiting patiently for his greeting. "Did she die again?"

He grinned. "Yes, sweet, she did. Now will you kiss me?"

With a last scolding look at her sister, Dawn allowed herself to be enfolded in his strong arms. "Missed you," she mumbled against his mouth.

"Missed you more," he mumbled back, then set her down. "I am going to accompany Gandalf and Pippin to Minas Tirith. Will you come?"

"When?"

"An hour, perhaps two. No more. There is no time to wait overnight." His face was carefully neutral, not wanting to influence her decision.

Dawn held onto him, hands gripping his forearms as she scrutinized him, taking in every streak of dirt, every smear of blood. Buffy thought she might be imagining how much different this homecoming could have been if he'd been hurt. "Yes," Dawn said finally, and turned to her sister, demanding, "Are you gonna try to talk me out of it?"

Dawn knew these were perilous times; she knew Boromir could be killed at any time, and wanted to spend as much time with him as she could. Buffy couldn't exactly blame her, and sighed. "Would it do any good?"

"No."

"Then no, I'm not going to try to talk you out of it. Just be sure **you** don't die." She turned to Boromir. "I don't have to tell you what I'll do to you if she gets hurt, do I?" She leveled a look on him that had struck fear into many a demon and orc; it scared him no less.

"Um, no," he replied, and suddenly found pressing things to do far away from his love's sister while Aragorn smirked. 

Eowyn appeared before them then, a vision in white, a circlet of gold and jewels on her pale hair. She had eyes only for Aragorn, leading him into the hall with her arm twined through his, mindless of any dirt or blood he might get on the bodice of her pristine gown as she almost snuggled against him.

"If you think any harder, you will give yourself a cramp," Gimli teased her, and she realized she had been staring at Aragorn and Eowyn. 

Buffy sighed, and gave him a wan smile before climbing the steps to the main hall. Inside were Haldir and the remainder of his archers, and when he stood to greet her, to her horror she burst into tears. Alarmed, he grasped her arms. "What has happened?" he demanded. "Is Legolas dead?"

But that elf was entering the hall just then, hale and whole and studiously avoiding Buffy as if she weren't there, sobbing against Haldir's chest. Understanding then, he scooped her into his arms and strode out, uncaring of the glances he attracted.

Entering a small chamber, he dumped her onto the bed and glared down at her, hands on hips. "Tell me," he commanded, and Buffy found herself blabbing about how Legolas had been ignoring her ever since she'd died. 

"Ai, Valar," Haldir sighed in comprehension, sinking to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. "If that elf were any thicker, he'd be a dwarf." He thought a moment. "No, that's not true. He's thicker than a dwarf, at least thicker than the one in your company. He seems canny enough."

"He is," Buffy sniffled loyally. "Gimli's great." 

He sighed again. "I'm afraid Legolas' change of heart is my doing, Dagnir." She looked sharply at him, and he held up his hands defensively. "I told him that he had to stop ignoring how devoted you are to your Gift… that it was a part of you, just like your courage and your kindness and your terribly silly sense of humour." He tucked a look strand of hair behind her ear. "I fear he took my words to his heart, and cannot find it within himself to understand or accept that part of you."

"So he just starts acting like I'm not there?" Buffy demanded, dashing her tears from her cheeks before standing and jamming her hands angrily on her hips. Then she seemed to deflate before him, hands falling limply to her sides. "He never really loved me," she whispered. "Or even just liked me. Because he wasn't seeing the real me." She turned away to stare out the window.

Outside, all of Edoras slept, and few window glowed with light. The dark shapes of the houses and barns against the night sky was peaceful, in direct counterpoint to the turmoil churning within Buffy. Hadn't she kept a distance from others all these years for exactly this reason? To avoid this kind of pain?

"He said he'd never betray me," she said. "But he's turned his back on me. Just like Angel did, just like Riley did."

Haldir came to stand behind her, wrapping his arms loosely around her. "I will not turn from you, Dagnir. Ever."

She twisted slightly to look up at him, and hugged his arms closer to her. "Why couldn't I fall in love with you, huh?"

He smirked down at her. "For the same reason that I could not fall in love with you, it would seem. We are not meant to love each other in that way."

She sighed and leaned back against him. "I feel a little better now. Thanks, Haldir."

He rested his cheek against her head, gazing out over the city. "It was my honour, Dagnir."

Eowyn came to fetch them for supper, after which Aragorn announced that he had looked into the Palantir, but had not allowed it to control him. "Sauron now knows that Isildur has a living heir, and will be sending forces against Gondor to fight me," he told them. "I hope to distract his attention, so Frodo may continue his journey unimpeded."

There would be no dancing after the feast this night. All too soon, Boromir was helping Dawn onto Timon and climbing up behind her as Pippin sat before Gandalf on Shadowfax. "We will see you in Minas Tirith," the wizard promised, and with a last wave from Dawn, they were off. 

"Gandalf and Boromir will protect her," Gimli assured Buffy, patting her shoulder. "They would die to keep her safe. Even Pippin would breathe his last to save her life."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," she said, and pointedly ignored Legolas as she turned back to the hall when a cry of dismay sounded from inside. "If I'm not mistaken, that was Eowyn. Sounds like she just heard Aragorn wants to take the Paths of the Dead." 

Eowyn had indeed, and was at that moment squawking up a storm. Her brother, Eomer, had joined his voice to hers in protesting that route.

"There is no other way," Aragorn said through clenched teeth, and Buffy knew he was close to losing his temper completely. "The decision is mine to make, and I have made it. We leave at sunrise."


	4. Chapter 14

The Gift of Death, Part 14

The next morning, Buffy was sad to see that Merry would not be joining them on their trek to intercept the enemy coming from the south. 

"I have sworn myself to Theoden, and by him I must stay," the Hobbit said proudly. Buffy had to smile; he was so incongruous, standing amoung his fellow Rohirrim, but his face wore the same fierceness, bravery, and determination as any hardened soldier. She shook his hand, then indulged herself by hugging and kissing his little face, which be bore with stoic patience.

They left for the Paths of the Dead, and the deeper they penetrated into the murky glen, the more morose everyone seemed to become. For the first time in many years, Buffy found herself doubting her choices and abilities. Did she really have any place in this war? Should she be at Aragorn's side, or would she be better placed back in Forlinden, helping to control what must surely be chaos, now that most of the Rangers had come south to battle against the forces of Mordor?

They came to a tall spike of rock, jutting ominously into the late morning sky, and behind it was the Dark Door. The horses balked at entering, especially the Rohirrim horses, and it was only due to Legolas' soothing song that they were able to be lead inside the tunnel. Gimli, alone of their company without his own mount, was left alone at the door, and stood staring at it in dread until Buffy poked her head back out.

"C'mon, Gimli, it won't be that bad," she told him.

"Do you promise?" he asked with apprehension.

"Yep!" Buffy replied brightly. "Cross my heart." He still looked doubtful, but slowly and with great deliberation stepped across the threshold.

They walked until they came to a great room, and the light from Elladan's torch glimmered on something of gold to one side. Laying before a stone door, it was a skeleton, a warrior, and a rich one at that judging by the quality of the mail shirt and jewel-encrusted weapons. His fingertips lay in the cracks of the door as if, after all these years, he were still trying to pry the door open.

"No, do not touch him," Aragorn tried to warn Buffy, but desperate for a glimpse of some beauty after hours of nothing but grim terror, she brushed some dust off the garnets on the skeleton's gold belt. Almost immediately she felt herself falling, and reached to grab something to stay upright, but there was no one there.

No one alive, that is. For as she fell with a thump to the floor of the tunnel, and looked around, the rest of their group was gone, and she was surrounded by ghosts. They surrounded her, creeping closer until she had scooted as far away as she could, and was pressed right beside the skeleton against the stone door. She studied them for long moments, saw the anger and despair and weariness on their translucent faces, and something clicked in her head—she understood them. 

Wasn't she a ghost too, really? Condemned to linger for eternity until someone decided she'd suffered enough? Her fear dissolved and she pushed away from the wall to stand, looking upon the ghosts with something akin to comradeship, if not actual sympathy. She was not an oath-breaker, after all. 

"Very good," drawled a voice from the back of the clutch of ghosts surrounding her, and they parted before the speaker as he approached Buffy. It was, amazingly, Spike, and he seemed as corporeal as she. "I was wondering how long that would take before you twigged."

"Spike?" she croaked in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"'Not really here, pet. S'not really me." He stood there, so cocky just like she remembered, in that damned leather duster, bleached hair gleaming in the weak torchlight. 

"Oh, great," she muttered. "Hallucinations. Just what I need right now."

"Don't knock it, Slayer," Spike scolded, waggling a pale finger at her playfully. "This might be exactly what you need."

She placed hands on hips impatiently. "And what the hell do you mean by that, Mr. Cryptic?"

But he'd turned and was wading through the sea of ghosts that still ringed her. "You'll see," floated back his enigmatic reply to her. 

He hadn't gone long when another voice rang out over the tunnel's rough-hewn stone walls. "Buffy!"

She'd slumped to sit once more, so shot to her feet, frowning as she struggling to recognize him. "R-Riley?" she stammered at last.

He strode forward, head and shoulders above the ghosts, a faint smile on his handsome, wholesome face. Unsurprisingly, he was dressed in some sort of military fatigues, though they were dark grey and rather ominous looking, she thought. "Hi, Buffy."

"Hi, Riley," she replied, feeling it an incongruously normal greeting for two people who hadn't seen each other in almost twenty years, and had, apparently, both died. "Are you dead?"

"Yep," he replied cheerfully, jamming his hands in his pockets. "About twelve years ago. Monpiltithan demon surprised me. Got Sam, too."

"That's too bad," she said automatically, then, "Who's Sam."

"My wife," he informed her. Married her a few months after I left you." The words were spoken so casually that, even nearly two decades after the fact, Buffy found herself wincing. "Now, Buf, don't be like that," he admonished, seeing her reaction. "I'm here to tell you why I left you."

 "Pretty obvious, isn't it?" She laughed then, a dry and humorless rasp in her dry throat. "I repel men. There's something about me that does it, like that predator pee you can put in your garden to keep the deer away. One sniff and they run screaming for the hills."

"Nah," he said with an airy wave of his hand. "Got nothing at all to do with you, really." The skeleton at Buffy's feet seemed to interest him, and he squatted down to inspect it more closely. "People are really self-involved, you know that?" He poked at the figure's hauberk, then ran a fingertip over the damaged sword by its side. "We're so busy trying to make ourselves happy we don't see what we do to other people." 

Riley stood then, and smiled at her. "If you weren't so self-involved yourself, you'd understand that."

She was starting to lose her temper. "What the hell does that mean? Spike's vague, you're vague. Got a bellyful of the vague, you can stop any time now."

"Where's the fun in that?" he teased, but relented at her expression of growing ire. He held up his hands in supplication. "Okay, okay," he said appeasingly. "You think that all the men in your life leave you because there's something wrong with you, right?" Buffy nodded. "Well, it's not true."

"No?" Her skepticism was blatantly obvious. "The statistics tend to prove you wrong. If we go chronologically, there's my father, then Angel, then Parker, then you, then Legolas." Saying his name tightened her throat and it came out garbled. 

 "Nope." Riley shook his head firmly, serious for the first time since appearing before her. "We all left you not because there's something wrong with you, but because there's something wrong with us, Buffy." He sighed. "I can't really speak for the others, though I am pretty sure of Parker's motivations, but as for myself, the reason I left was because you didn't need me, and I needed to be needed." He frowned. "I hope you understood that."

She nodded slowly, and he continued. "I was used to being the leader. Of my soldiers, of the students when I was a TA, of my girlfriends. But you… you were the leader of your group, and though you made a place for me in the Scoobies, it wasn't the place that I wanted. That's why I got the suckjobs from those vampire whores—they needed me."

Buffy started to look queasy. 

"It's true!" he protested. "Every pull of their mouths on my arm was like a massive stroke to my ego. They needed me, needed something I could provide. They made me feel necessary, essential. You didn't." The bluntness of the words made even him flinch. "Um, sorry. But that's also why I gave you that ultimatum, to ask me to stay or I would leave. I was trying to force you to admit you needed me."

Riley exhaled sharply, and stared at his feet. "It was wrong of me. Manipulation, emotional blackmail… there's never really a time where that's a good thing. It's never really excusable, and I'm not trying to get you to forgive me. Just to understand me, to know that it wasn't you." He looked up. "That you were right when you didn't give in to my demand."

"But I did," she whispered. "I did give in." He looked confused. "I ran to the helicopter landing to ask you to stay, but you'd just taken off, didn't hear me yell for you."

Riley looked stricken for a moment, and then his face eased. "But Buffy, that was meant to be," he explained softly. "You made the right decision, when it counted. It was only when you began doubting yourself that you made the mistake of coming after me."

She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a hand to halt her. "My time's just about up now," he said. "Remember what I told you. There's nothing wrong with you." Then he turned and walked back through the throng of ghosts, leaving her there. Her legs wobbled unsteadily, and she slid down the wall to curl up, wrapping her arms tightly around her knees.

It didn't take long for the next visitor to arrive, and she wasn't at all shocked to see who it was. "Angel."

He smiled down at her for a long time, his dark eyes piercing as they gazed on her, noting every detail—the medievalish clothing, the hip-length hair, her dead and very thin companion. "Hello, Buffy," he said at last.

"So," she said, standing yet again. "What wisdom do you have to impart to me, O Ghost of Christmas Past?"

He reached out and brushed a wisp of hair back from her face, echoing Haldir's caress of the night before. "I left you twice, you know," he said by way of introduction, and Buffy was somewhat surprised to feel that the pain of those departures hadn't much dimmed since they'd happened.

"I know," she said softly, hand pressed over her heart as if she could stop it aching like that. _Didn't work,_ she thought sourly. _Still hurts_.

"And both times, it was just as Riley said. Because there was something wrong with me, not with you." His hand now came to cup her cheek, and she leaned into it, feeling the still-familiar coolness of his dead flesh. His scent, leather and blood and some exotic spice from the Orient, filled her sensitive nostrils and she was swept back to her high school years, when that smell could reduce her to a blubbering heap of hormones. 

"The first time, it was because of the curse. The second time, it was because I thought being away from you would help you in the long run. But it was really because I was weak," he admitted. "Because I loved you so much, wanted you so much, I knew I wouldn't be able to resist making love to you for long, and I couldn't bear the thought of Angelus coming back."

Angel's other hand came to cup her face, and she stared up at him, into his long-beloved face, watching his lips move as he spoke. "It was all about me, Buffy, and what I needed. What I was afraid of, what I couldn't take. I should have been stronger for you, should have known that you were worth any sacrifice, any amount of hard work and torment. That being with you, even chastely, was better than being apart."

He leaned his forehead against hers, and closed his eyes. "I was so wrong, Buffy. We could have searched for a way to end the curse, and even if we couldn't find one, we would have been together. Would have drawn strength from each other. You can't know what it did to me to know you were all alone that last year of your life… learning that you suddenly had a sister to protect, losing your mother… knowing I deserted you to bear that all alone…"

Angel stopped then, his throat too thick to continue for a moment. "It was a hell worse than where you sent me. Knowing I had condemned you to that, by my selfishness. And knowing there was nothing I could do to make it up to you."

"Until now," Buffy told him, and pulled away a little to smile crookedly at him. 

He smiled back, even though tears were dripping off his chin. "Until now." He trailed a finger through the tracks of her own tears. "You don't know how I leapt at this chance to see you again, Buffy. To say goodbye."

"Does it have to be goodbye?" she whispered, eyes pleading.

"You know it does." He turned away then, hands fisting at his sides as he struggled to gain control of himself. "I was sent here to give you closure." His voice hardened, as if he'd found a reserve of determination somewhere deep within him. "You've never really been able to move on from me, and you have to. You have a lot of your life to live still—a lot—and you can't spend the next few thousand years moping about me. I'm gone now, gone for real, and I'm not coming back again. This is it."


	5. Chapter 15

Author's Note: I update sooner on my yahoo group than I do here: groups dot yahoo dot com slash group slash cinnamongrrl or you can click on my name above and use the link to my group on the author's page.

The Gift of Death, Part 15

When he turned back to her, she was watching him carefully, hungrily, feasting her eyes on him so the sight would last her a lifetime. "This is the lesson I'm supposed to teach you, Buffy… you are an extraordinary woman. You need an extraordinary man. Or, um, elf. Whatever," he amended clumsily. "You need someone who won't put himself and his fears and issues ahead of yours, someone who can deal with you as an equal, can handle your uniqueness and isn't threatened by it. That wasn't me, Buffy, and it wasn't Riley. Wasn't Spike either, but he'll explain when he comes back."

"Oh, there's more fun to come?" she said dully. "Yay."

Angel tilted her face up to his, then slid his arms around her. Her own arms easily remembered how to embrace him, and when he lowered his mouth to hers, the familiarity of the position thrilled her almost as much as the sensation of the kiss itself—for so long, everything had been so new, so unknown. He still tasted like death, she thought, death and desire and oblivion. Kissing him still made her want to die, but when he pulled away she was able to smile, even if it were a rather wobbly smile.

"I will love you forever," Angel promised fervently. "My soul and demon both. That's why Angelus hates you so much—because he loves you so much. They're not so different, love and hate, you know." He stepped back, still holding onto her hand.

"I know," she agreed, tasting the tears that coursed down her cheeks and into her mouth, clinging to his hand until he stepped back one final time and they parted. He walked backwards through the mass of ghosts, never taking his eyes from her, until the ranks closed once more and he was hidden from view.

Wrapping her arms around her, she bowed her head and wept for what felt like a century or two before another pair of arms came around her. They too were cool, and smelt of blood and leather, but also of cigarette smoke. "Spike?"

"Yeah, pet," he said, rubbing his hand in soothing circles over her back. "That must have been hard for you."

"You have no idea," she replied, scrubbing the wetness from her face.

"Don't I?" he asked, a sardonic twist to his mouth. "Watching the love of my unlife leave me without a backwards glance, never to be seen again… no, got no clue what that's like."

Buffy stared at him and then glanced away, ashamed. "Sorry," she mumbled.

Spike shrugged. "You've always underestimated me, Slayer. Why should now be any different? People are creatures of habit, we are." He eyed her sharply. "Unless we make a concerted effort to change ourselves."

Buffy sighed. "And what knowledge are you here to convey, sensei?"

He removed a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his duster and tapped one out. "Mostly, I'm here to absolve your guilt, lay your wonder to rest." He stuck the cigarette into the corner of his mouth and lit it. 

"Guilt? Wonder?" she echoed. "What in the frilly heck are you babbling about?"

He quirked his scarred brow. "You know, even after all these years, Red still talks like that, too."

"Is Willow happy?" Buffy asked, anxiously for some word of her friends. "Are they all happy?"

"She hooked up with Dog Boy, got herself some kids, owns the Magic Shop with Glinda. Her joy blinds us all. Revolting, really." He said it with only a trace amount of derision, and sucked on his cigarette. "But that's not what I'm here to discuss with you."

Buffy folded her arms over her chest. "Well, get to it. I haven't got all year, you know. Got a war to fight. And I wouldn't mind a bath some time in the near future, either."

Spike only smirked at her. "Let's tackle the 'wonder' aspect first, shall we, pet?" He began a languid pace around the small circle of space left to them by the surrounding ghosts. "You've been wondering all these years if you should have given me a chance, if you should have at least let me try to prove to you that I loved you, and could be decent." He tilted his head at her in that canine way he had. "And now that you know I really did love you, and really could be decent, you've got the guilt."

"Get outta my head," Buffy grumbled, trying to turn away from him, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm. It was the hand holding the cigarette, and its smoke wafted up into her face, but she ignored it. 

"No, pet, you don't understand. This isn't me trying to invade your privacy," he protested. "This is me trying to explain that, once again, it wasn't something that was wrong you with. It was me. Though, not really my fault."

"Again with the cryptic!" she exclaimed in frustration, throwing up her hands. "Just spit it out!"

Spike heaved a sigh of long suffering. "It's like this, cutie. Yes, I loved you—still do, if I'm honest—and yes, I've been a white hat ever since." He dropped his cigarette butt to the floor, toeing it out with his heavy black boot. "But I had a fundamental flaw, one you couldn't overlook. I was a soulless monster, and though some **have** been able to overlook that, you didn't. You're the Slayer, pet. You **couldn't**. It was amazing enough that you bent the rules enough to hook up with the Poof, but he at least had a soul, and a century of redemption under his belt."

"What did I have?" he continued, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops and cocking a hip to the side. "Dick-all, that's what I had. Well, a chip, and my love for you, but that was it. It was never gonna happen. Took a while for me to accept it, but you were dead and all, so it's not like I had a choice."

She was just staring at him, so he relented. "Ok, words of two syllables or less. You wondered if you were wrong about refusing my love, back before you died. Yes, you were. But, you shouldn't be guilty about that, because while you were wrong about the facts, you weren't wrong about the morality of it."

Spike grinned then. "Oops, 'morality' has three syllables. Sorry." Buffy jabbed him in the shoulder, frowning, and he rubbed it while continuing. "My point is, you couldn't have done anything differently, Slayer. Nor should you have. You have to trust yourself more, and know that your intuition won't steer you wrong."

"Easy to say," she replied hotly. "I was following my intuition with Legolas, in spite of my suspicions that it would end badly, and look where it got me!" 

"Ah, Buffy, can you blame him?" Spike asked with a sigh, and extracted another cigarette. "He's an elf, for chrissake. What you're doing is acting like a suicidal nutter on a quest for the perfect shotgun to end it all. That sound like an emotionally healthy person to start a relationship with?" He lit it and took a deep drag. "I was with Drusilla for a century, luv. I know from barmy, and even I would think twice at hooking up with you." He leered at her before continuing salaciously, "No matter how tasty you happen to look."

Buffy was unimpressed. "Your standards have definitely slipped, then," she informed him haughtily, "because I am dirty, grubby, sweaty, grimy, dusty, and other sorts of adjectives that all add up to the grand 'ew'." She relented then. "But I get your point. This whole thing has been about looking outside the box, right?"

"The box being your obsession with yourself, yeah," he agreed. "Try to see things from other people's perspective, and try to remember that not everything revolves around you. Yeah, you're the Slayer, so a goodly amount of it **does** revolve around you, but you have to find the ability to discern which does, and which doesn't."

"'Discern'?" she questioned teasingly. "I thought you said two syllables or less. That's at least a fifty-cent word, maybe even a full dollar."

"'Discern' **is** a two syllable word, you stupid bint," Spike growled around his smoke.

"Oh, yeah!" she giggled, laying on thickly the blonde bimbo act before sobering. "You haven't called me a bint in a long time, Spike," she told him nostalgically. 

"Yeah, good times." He took a last drag and let that butt join its twin on the floor. "Gotta get moving, pet. Places to go, orcs to kill, yeah?" She nodded. "How's the Niblet doing?"

"She's doing pretty well," Buffy told him. "I think she's in love, even considering getting married."

Spike frowned fiercely. "Well, you tell him that if he acts anything like the last husband she had, I'll find a way to get to wherever the bloody hell you are and kill him myself. No more chip, mind… nothing keeping me from the business."

"Yes, Spike," she said, rolling her eyes. "I will tell Boromir: blood and mayhem to follow if he so much as hogs the covers."

"'S'right," he said with a righteous nod. "I look after my girl."

Suddenly overwhelmed with affection for him, she threw her arms around him for a big hug. "Thanks, Spike," she said, and kissed him lightly on the lips. But before she could pull away, he cupped the back of her head in his hand and plundered her mouth with his tongue, positively ravishing her.

When at last they separated, he was grinning wolfishly at her. "Just a little taste of what you were missing, luv," he told her before turning in a swirl of leather and striding away. He did not look back.

"Wow," she said thoughtfully, fingertips tracing her swollen lips. "Wow."

"What is wow, Dagnir?" asked a voice close to her ear, and she blinked, then blinked again, for she was no longer in that weird place in the tunnel, surrounded by ghosts. Now she was outside, and it must have been nighttime, for it was still dark and torch-lit all around them, and she was in Haldir's arms. No, she corrected, in Haldir's lap, for the elf was seated on the ground, his back against a rather ugly and ominous-looking tree, and he was staring down curiously at her.

They were, however, still surrounded by ghosts.

"She is awake?" asked Aragorn, falling with a thud to his knees beside them and yanking her into his arms for a ferocious hug. "Do not do that again!" he barked at her. "Die if you must, I am used to that, but do not fall asleep and refuse to wake up!"

"I won't," she whispered, hugging him back. "I promise."

"Like you promised me that the tunnel would not be 'so bad'?" demanded Gimli from behind Aragorn. He was wringing his hands again. "It was horrible! More so when you fell insensible to the ground, and none could wake you!"

Buffy shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I didn't know that was gonna happen." She was still a little dazed from her experience with her lovers. Speaking of which, Legolas was nowhere to be seen.

"We thought you would never wake again!" the dwarf shouted at her. "We were not prepared for this! Everything, we tried… shaking you, dousing you—" Buffy noticed then that she was damp—"and Elrohir even tried some elven magic." He quieted and finished sadly, "You promised."

"Yes, yes, I lied, I'm a terrible person. Can we move on now?" Buffy asked irritably. "It's not something I could control. It was the Valar again."

Every single person in the company stared at her, except for Haldir, who was used to Buffy receiving messages from the gods. "And what did they want?" he asked.

"Oh, the usual," she replied breezily, and disentangled herself from Aragorn to stand. "To confuse me, mess with my head, make me cry, and stir up my loathing for them all over again." Buffy glared up at the dark bowl of the sky above them. "Lot of wankers," she called them, inspired by Spike's Britishness. _Gotta hand it to the English_, she thought. _They're great with an insult_. "So, where are we?" She eyed a large round shape not far from where they had set up camp for the night. 

"At the Stone of Erech," Aragorn replied. "We awaited your return to us before proceeding."

"Decent of you," she commented dryly. She looked up at it. "It's a big rock. I can't wait to tell my friends. They don't have a rock this big."

Aragorn only shook his head at her and accepted the silver horn Elrohir held out to him, then blew strongly upon it. The ghosts that had trailed them for hours drew closer, and Aragorn demanded, "Oathbreakers, why have you come?"

A misty voice replied, "To fulfill our oath and have peace."

Aragorn replied, "Your promise shall be fulfilled when the last servant of Sauron is gone from the land of Gondor, for I am Elessar, heir of Isildur, and make you this vow." At that, Halbarad unwrapped Arwen's banner, and though it was so dark they could not see what was on the fabric, still they could see the silhouette of it against the night sky. 

"Well, then," Buffy said after a long moment of silence. "Been a long day. I'm pooped. Who's for a little shuteye?


	6. Chapter 16

Author's Note: review, please?

The Gift of Death, Part 16

Dawn tried her best not to slump too much against Boromir as they rode to Minas Tirith, knowing he had to be tired after a full day of traveling, but after a few hours of the rhythmic motion of the horse and Gandalf's voice pointing out to Pippin every hamlet and molehill they passed, she was so sleepy couldn't help herself. 

Before she woke, she dreamt of blood, and green portals, and Spike's face when she said goodbye to him. Boromir smiled wearily down at her, and she found herself telling him all about the vampire, about how devoted he'd been to her since Buffy's 'death', how even after his chip was removed he hadn't wavered in the least in his pursuit of eliminating evil from the world. 

And most of all, of her guilt at leaving him to come to Middle-Earth after he'd remained by her side for seventeen years, helping her deal with the loss of her sister so soon on the heels of her mother's death. "What's he going to do now?" she wondered aloud, brushing tears from her cheeks. "Where's he going to go? He said he might stay with Cordy and Wes and the others at AI in LA, or maybe fly out to visit Giles in London, but…" She realized then that Boromir had no idea what she was talking about, and drooped a little. 

"I am glad you had a foster-brother like that," he told her gravely. "And now you shall have another, my brother, Faramir. He is a fine man, and I think you shall love him as I do."

"Is he anything like you?" she asked, curious even as she studied the lean angle of his jaw, under the loads of manly stubble, and pressed a kiss to it.

"Not much," Boromir replied, giving her a little squeeze. "For he is ever circumspect, while I am impetuous." He grinned down at her. "He, for instance, would never ride into Minas Tirith with an unknown maid on his horse and announce she was his betrothed."

"Yeah, speaking of which," she said, pouncing on his words. "What the hell kind of proposal was that? Cuz it left a lot to be desired, let me tell you. Not saying you have to drop down on bended knee and present me with a ring, but—" Here she stopped speaking, because Boromir had halted their horse abruptly and climbed down, tugging Dawn after him. Gandalf noticed they had fallen behind, and wheeled back to rejoin them, grey eyes gleaming with humour as Boromir dutifully knelt before her in the dust.

"Boromir, you don't have to…" she demurred, but he reached up and placed a finger on her lips, hushing her. 

"Yes, I do," he corrected gently.

"Yes, he does," agreed Pippin. "You must woo a maiden properly, else she'll find another who will." 

Dawn pulled a face at the Hobbit, who only laughed at her, and Boromir pulled a bit of cloth from a hidden place in his tunic. Unwrapping it, he revealed a ring wrought of pale metal, richly engraved with vines and leaves. "This is mithril," he told her, "and my mother's. I keep it with me to remember her; never did I think I would want to give it to someone, for it is precious to me. But more precious to me than the ring, are you, Dawn," Boromir told her. "And I trust you to keep it safe, as I trust you to hold my heart."

"Your love and courage were made plain when you left behind your home to come to your sister, to take on her plight as your own. You do not shrink from danger, and your first thought is for others than yourself. Your faith in me has healed me of my lust for the One Ring, and I give you this other ring as token of my adoration of you. Will you accept it? Will you accept me? For I would ever strive to make you a fine husband, though I might fail on occasion." And he held the ring out in his palm, which trembled ever so slightly.

Dawn stared through the tears blurring her vision at him; his face was utterly genuine, his eyes open and clear. Boromir really loved her, she thought in amazement. He wasn't just after her for her appearance, hadn't mentioned her beauty once as he declared his love for her. Her ex-husband, Layne, hadn't really been interested in **her** so much as her looks. Of course, she hadn't been much better—she'd been entranced by Layne's gorgeous face and body, and not so much by his personality. 

Once the novelty of sex with a beautiful woman had worn off, Layne had started sleeping around. Dawn had only learned of it during her yearly female exam, when her Pap smear had come back abnormal. It would seem that not only was Layne unfaithful, but undiscriminating as well, and had passed an STD on to his wife. Fortunately, medical technology was vastly better than it had been before Buffy's death, and Dawn was able to be cured completely, but the betrayal and pain lingered, would always linger, even as it dimmed…

Boromir would not betray her, this she knew. He was so strong and brave, she thought, placing her hand on his face, her thumb brushing over his lips. Suddenly she too knelt in the dust, and grabbed his hands. "Do you love me?" she asked earnestly. "I have to hear you say it."

He nodded, golden hair swinging down around his face. "I love you, Dawn. I have almost from the beginning, but only did I realize it that night when the orcs attacked, and Dagnir fought them without her trousers." Dawn giggled at the memory. "I had not slept before Frodo cried the alarm, because I was laying there listening to you breathe. It was sweeter, more restful and comforting to me, than any sleep could be. That is when I knew."

She stared wonderingly up at him until he grimaced showily and shifted. "Will you be telling me your answer soon, sweet? For I fear my knees shall never be the same, if we continue to crouch here in the dirt." He glanced around her at their companions. Gandalf was watching them with a raised brow, while Pippin wept with unrestrained joy. "And Gandalf is eager to be away."

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I love you, yes, I will marry you, yes, yes yes!" And she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him until his eyes bulged. 

"Perhaps you should wait until he is fat and balding before you try to kill him, Dawn," suggested Pippin from his perch before Gandalf, atop Shadowfax. 

"Indeed," agreed the Maia. "Keep him alive while he is still young and handsome."

Dawn released her new fiancé with a slight blush and let him slip the ring on her finger before standing, accepting his kiss gladly and wrapping her arms around his waist before letting them fall lower.

"What are you doing, there?" Boromir gasped at the touch of her hand on his backside. 

"Just brushing the dirt off," she told him, eyes huge and innocent.

"But he was kneeling, not sitting," Pippin mused, a little confused, and Dawn just grinned naughtily at Boromir.

"Oh? My mistake," she said, and sauntered back to Timon.

*

"Wake, sweet," Boromir said, urging Dawn awake when at last they began the approach to Minas Tirith.

"Whah? Huh?" she said sleepily, rubbing at her eyes like a child, and he chuckled at the sight. 

"Look you ahead of us," he told her, "for it will be your first glimpse of your new home, once we are wed."

And she obediently turned in the direction he indicated, gasping at the sight of the tall city rising out of the side of a mountain. Seven tiers it had, all of the purest white stone, and a lone tower rising above it all from the highest tier. Dawn turned back to face Boromir, and saw that he was gazing upon his city with pride and affection.

"I am a Son of Gondor," he said, a trifle sheepish, when he noticed her watching him with a faint smile. "And you, you shall be its Daughter."

"A Daughter of Gondor," she repeated. "I like the sound of that. Haven't really had a permanent home, you know. Sunnydale's not exactly a place to brag about, and when Buffy died, I was just shuffled back and forth between everyone."

"Shuffled no longer," he told her sternly. "For I lay claim to you here, and here you shall stay with me."

"Sounds good to me," Dawn replied, and snuggled deeper against him as they trotted on and the city grew larger before them.

When they neared the great gates of the Minas Tirith, the guards set up a cry of "Boromir! The Lord of Gondor has returned!" And when they recognized Gandalf, another shout was raised: "Mithrandir! Mithrandir!" They entered the city, and followed the winding street through six of the gates, Pippin and Dawn gawping all the while at the lovely buildings, the graceful gardens. 

At the seventh gate, however, they had to dismount, and Boromir led them with great pleasure into the courtyard, in the centre of which was a beautiful fountain. In the middle of the fountain, however, was a great tree, quite obviously dead, and Dawn longed to ask Boromir why they'd leave a dead tree in the middle of an otherwise perfectly-kept city, but he was so eager to see his father again that she decided to wait until later. 

Inside the hall, on a raised dais, was an empty throne. At the foot of the steps, level with the floor, was a chair of carved stone, and in it sat an old man, lined and grey from time and care. "Father!" exclaimed Boromir, striding eagerly forward. 

"Boromir," replied Denethor, and stood to embrace his son. His keen eyes did not miss the slight wince when he pounded Boromir enthusiastically on the shoulder. "Have you been wounded?"

"An arrow to the shoulder, naught serious," Boromir assured him, reached back for Dawn's hand. "Father, this is—"

"That you would be injured so," Denethor lamented. "And on a fool's errand such as this. Would that Faramir had gone instead…"

Boromir gritted his teeth. "I wanted to go, Father, and do not begrudge my blood to the Fellowship. It is a worthy cause, and an privilege to me to be one of its number." He took a deep breath and tried again. "I would like you to meet—"

"Ah, ever are you the noble one," Denethor said, smiling fondly at his eldest. "Were Faramir as fine as he purports to be, it would have been him on that quest, an arrow piercing his flesh, instead of you."

"The Fellowship would have been greatly strengthened by his presence, my lord. Come, say hello to—"

"And here is Mithrandir, come to honour us with his presence." Denethor's words, while courteous, were marred by their sarcastic tone. Dawn was positive by this point that she strongly disliked Boromir's father, and wondered how it were possible for her boyfriend—er, fiancé—to end up being so cool when his dad was such a jerk.

"Father!" Boromir roared, his patience fled at last. "Be you quiet, and listen to me!" Denethor blinked and obediently shut his mouth. "Yes, Mithrandir is come, and Pippin Took as well, but I am most eager for you to make the acquaintance of this fine lady, here." And he took Dawn's hand and led her forward. "This is Dawn Summers."

Dawn stepped forward, uncertain if she should curtsey or something. "Hello," she said and settled for bobbing her head. "It's nice to meet you."

Her death-grip on Boromir's hand did not go unnoticed by his father. "Dawn Summers," he repeated, gnarled hand moving to stroke his chin in conjecture. "A time of day, and a season. Tis a lighthearted name, a fanciful name." His gaze raked over her slowly, almost insultingly, before returning to hers. His eyes were flat and black, like a serpent's, and Dawn found herself taking a tiny step closer to Boromir. Denethor turned his snake's gaze to his son. "And why would you be eager for me to meet this… lady, my son?"

Boromir straightened his back and squared his shoulders, looking most impressively tall and strong, much to Dawn's admiration. _Got myself a hottie,_ she thought happily. "Because I love her, and she me, and we are to be wed when this war is over," he told his father firmly.

"Is that so?" Denethor asked mildly. "And what has she to recommend her? She is beautiful enough, I suppose…" his tone was insulting enough to make even Gandalf bristle in offense. "But what else? A fine lineage? A hefty fortune? Would this be a politic match?"

"I care nothing for any of these things," Boromir declared. "Not even of her beauty, though I love to look up on her, for it is her heart that has captured mine, not her face. We Stewards of Gondor have fortune aplenty, and need not marry more. As for lineage, her sister is none other than the Dagnir herself, the Ranger of legend and a finer, more stalwart ally is not to be found in Middle-Earth, nor on Valinor itself."

_Wow_, Dawn thought. _No worries about the in-laws getting along there. _Boromir seemed to really like and admire Buffy.She was basking in the afterglow of the other things he'd said about her when Denethor shifted in his vastly uncomfortable-looking stone chair and turned his speculative gaze upon her. 

"Yesss," he said at last, "We Stewards of Gondor do indeed have fortune aplenty. Perhaps that is why one such as she would be interested in a rough warrior such as yourself?"

The slur to herself didn't even register to Dawn; all she could feel was fury that the man would insult his own son so horribly. "I violently dislike you," she said by way of introduction. "Are you actually saying that only a gold-digger would be interested in Boromir?" she demanded, pulling free of Boromir's loose embrace to confront his father. Standing just a few paces from Denethor, she jammed her hands on her hips and glared, so strongly resembling Buffy that even in this tense moment, the Fellows behind her were hard-pressed to keep from laughing. "Because if you are, I gotta say, you're dead wrong about that."

She returned to his side then, tucking herself snugly against him. "First of all, he's gorgeous. I'd bet there are women lined up around Minas Tirith right now hoping for a shot at him. But, hah! He's taken. By me, and I'm not letting him go any century soon." She felt a vibration go through Boromir then, and knew he was struggling with both anger and amusement at the same time. "Secondly, he's a wonderful man, a truly amazing person. Even if he looked—and smelled—like an orc, I'd love him." Then Dawn frowned. "Though I will admit, it would be harder."

Her fury wound down then, and she sagged a little against Boromir's side. "Don't you dare say anything against him again," she finished tiredly, the stress and fatigue of the past few days seemed to return to her in full force. He curled an arm around her waist and held her tightly to him. 

"Well, my son?" prompted Denethor silkily. "What say you to your strumpet's outburst?"

Gandalf and Pippin leapt to their feet at that, and joined their voices to Boromir's in his fuming. He easily out-shouted them, however, so angry was he. "Long have I endured your abuse, Father," he said, his voice low-pitched and menacing. "Long has Faramir borne your displeasure, your mocking tirades. Ever have we withstood it, for love of you. I see now how misguided we were."

Denethor made as to speak; Boromir held up his hand for silence in a manner most lordly. "I will not hear more of your venom," he declared. "If you do not accept Dawn as my betrothed, then you do not accept me as your son and heir. If you cannot refrain from your offense of her, then know that you offend me as well with every slight against her." He lifted Dawn's hand to his lips the, and kissed it showily, the better to display the mithril ring of his mother's that she wore. 

Denethor's eyes widened at that. "Your mother's ring--?" he stammered in shock.

"My mother is dead," Boromir said coldly. "As, it would seem, is my father." He turned then, and began to stride from the hall. Dawn hurried to keep up with his agitated stride, only too glad to leave this horrible chamber with its equally horrible lord.

"You desert your duties to Gondor, then, do you, my son?" The last two words were stressed apurpose, and rang out against the stone walls. "For if you leave this hall with her, you are stripped of your title, your home in the citadel, your sire, your livelihood, your family, your very birthright."

Boromir did not turn around when he answered, but his voice sounded clearly enough that Dawn imagined Eowyn might be able to hear it back in Edoras. "None of those things hold the slightest appeal for me, Denethor." He paused for effect. "Especially my sire."


	7. Chapter 17

Author's Note: Updates are quicker and more reliable on my yahoo group, groups dot yahoo dot com slash group slash cinnamongrrl.

The Gift of Death, Part 17

They had a long march, and a hard one, from Erech down to Pelargir. Aragorn had his hands full controlling  the Shadow Host, as his fellow Rangers had taken to calling the ghosts, but still he found time to wonder about the change wrought in Buffy.

As she rode alongside Haldir in companionable silence, or laughed at yet another of Gimli's dirty limericks, or pretended she was ignoring Legolas, he found himself studying her. She was no more talkative than she'd ever been, but the jangling energy that seemed an intrinsic part of her character was missing. In its place was a sense of resigned calm, as if she'd finally accepted something she'd long avoided.

Aragorn knew she'd told Haldir what had happened when she was unconscious for that long, frightening day. His terror when she awoke had not been feigned; always her friend, he had come to view her as a sister during these past months and for Dagnir, the Slayer, to be so mysteriously incapacitated had been truly fearsome to him. She was indestructible, immortal, relentless in her pursuit of evil. Without her by his side, would he be able to lead Men to victory? A pang of self-doubt wracked him then, and the ghosts around them seemed to writhe and swell, as if they could sense his uncertainty.

For her part, Buffy had been studying him in kind, along with the rest of her companions. She knew Aragorn was having qualms about his leadership skills, but she also knew he was the strongest and bravest man she'd ever met, and had every reason to believe he would eventually triumph over not only his reservations but his enemies as well. 

Gimli was so relieved she was well he had hardly shut up since she'd woken up; Haldir too was glad but restrained his joy to those tiny half-smiles for which he was famous. The other Dunedain were even more unnerved by her than they'd been prior to this whole Fellowship deal, although she thought Halbarad might have the hots for her, for some bizarre reason…

No more bizarre than the fact that she was **positive** one of Elrond's twins had the hots for her. Which one she couldn't tell, because they were like peas in a pod—tall, dark, beautiful, with silvery-grey eyes that give her little tingles. She was pretty sure they pretended to be each other just for kicks, and in her randier moments on the journey (because when you're riding for days at a clip, there's always plenty of time for randy thoughts) she entertained some of her naughtier fantasies about what exactly one might be able to accomplish when equipped with a really big bed, a bowl of brownie batter, and identically gorgeous twins sporting that fabulous elven stamina.

And speaking of things which were both fabulous and elven: Legolas… ah, there was a mystery. She was not much closer to understanding his sudden change of behaviour than she had been days ago even with Haldir's explanation. Some sort of fight, or break-up, she could understand, but this deafening silence… Buffy couldn't decide if wanted to beat him senseless, or just curl into a corner and weep for a few months. 

After a few days of this, she decided she was more angry than hurt. In spite of her newfound sense of completion and tranquility, he was really starting to piss her off the way he behaved in the most neutral of ways, as if she were a stranger he'd just met, as if she hadn't told him everything about herself and admitted to him she was falling in love with him. As if he hadn't accepted that information and promised he would never make her regret trusting him.

On the morning of the fifth day, as the sun was just beginning to creep over the horizon and drive away the grey shadows of the night, Buffy sat on a log by the smoldering fire pit finishing the scrap of lembas Haldir handed her for breakfast and contemplated the concept of closure. She'd lacked it for seventeen years with the other men in her life, and she'd be damned if she went that long with this aching void between her and Legolas. 

And so, quite methodically, she finished chewing, took a final sip of mead, wiped her mouth. Stood, brushed off her backside, made sure she was all ready to go, and excused herself from the others' presence before finally losing whatever semblance of patience she'd been faking and stalking to where Legolas perched on a rock, examining his arrows.

"What are you doing?" Buffy asked without preamble. He looked almost ethereally handsome, the ivory planes of his face glowing in the dawn's light, and even through her anger she was almost shaking with the effort to refrain from launching herself at him and begging him to take her, to love her.

"I am preparing for the day's journey," he replied, scarcely looking at her. It wasn't disdain, exactly… more a benign neglect, and it infuriated her. 

She tilted her head to one side, watching him a moment longer. Then, "It's interesting how 'preparing' looks a great deal like sitting on your ass."

He stopped then, and quirked a brow as he gazed up at her. Once, that expression on his enchanting face would have melted her; now, however, she only longed to slap if off of him. The feeling was not diminished in any way when he spoke next. "Is there something I can do for you, milady?"

Oh, he was back to calling her 'milady'. He hadn't used that with her since they'd left Lorien. Buffy clenched her jaw to keep her temper, and said, "We're gonna have a talk."

"Are we?" he asked conversationally, still not really catching her gaze as he carefully replaced the arrows in his quiver.

"Yeah." Her hands were flexing in that way that indicated she was just about to get violent, had he been paying attention. "We can do this the hard way, or… actually, there's just the hard way." And she grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and carried him away from the others, deaf to his mutterings of dire consequences for treating him that way and immune to his squirmings to be free.

When they were out of earshot of even the twins, she dropped him to land in a heap on the ground. "If you run, I'll just catch you and tie you up," she informed him coolly.

Legolas didn't doubt it. He stood and brushed himself off with great aplomb. "What is it you want to talk about?"

"Hm, I don't know," Buffy said, touching her fingertip to her chin in fake wonder. "Could it be… the reason you've been ignoring me since the last time I died?"

"I think you are mistaken, milady," he informed her gravely. "I am ever aware of you."

"Okay, then, I'll rephrase it." She paced in a circle around him. "Why is it that, back in Edoras, you were threatening to take me against a corridor wall—how did you phrase it? 'I want to make love to every inch of your body', yes, that was it—and since Helm's Deep you haven't said three words to me?" Buffy turned to face him then, eyes bright with unshed tears. "I know I didn't do anything differently, so it's got to be something with you."

"Something with me?" he repeated, his face impassive as he watched her. "I do not understand."

"Well, I don't think I can talk any slower," she retorted, and came to stand right in front of him. "What. Is. Wrong. With. You?" she asked, enunciating carefully, and poked him in the chest with each word. 

Legolas carefully removed her pointy little finger from where it was bruising his pectoral muscle, and did not reply immediately. "Do you remember our conversation in Fangorn?" he asked her suddenly.

"The one where I poured my heart out to you, and you said you would never betray me?" she asked, her voice deceptively light. "Yeah, I think I might recall that a little."

He had the grace to flinch at her not-so-subtle reminder, but continued. "You said that I did not truly know you. I, in my foolishness, insisted you were wrong. But you were not. I was." He clasped his hands behind his back and stared down at the ground, studying the tracks of her footsteps in the dirt. "I had formed an opinion of you that was incorrect, and for that I am sorry. I led you to believe I had feelings for you, when in reality I only had feelings for the woman I thought you were. But she does not exist."

He looked up then, at her stricken and pale face. "I am sorry," Legolas repeated sorrowfully. "I think, in my sorrow at this realization, that I was angry with you, as if it were your fault, when it has ever been my own."

A rogue tear spilled from each eye, and she dashed them impatiently away. "Just out of curiosity," she began speaking carefully so her throat didn't close up, "In what way did you wrongly think I was someone you could love?"

"I did not know you wanted so deeply to receive your Gift, Dagnir," he replied quietly. "Haldir explained it to me; you are indeed better off with him, if he can accept such a thing, but I cannot. It is not in me to stand by while my mate desires her end, instead of to be by my side. I could not join with you knowing that, more than you longed for me, you longed for death. It would almost be… an infidelity, do you see?"

His eyes, blue as the sky now lit above them in the fullness of morning, pleaded with her to understand. "Realizing this, I thought to end what we had before it became something more difficult to part from. I see now that I chose my method poorly."

She stared at him with a growing expression of amazement, and then Buffy shocked him greatly, because she threw back her head and began to laugh. She laughed until she cried, laughed until she was hiccupping, laughed until her legs gave out and she dropped to her knees in the dirt. And even then, she laughed.

What he didn't know, what she hadn't told anyone, not Haldir, not Aragorn, not Dawn-- hell, she hadn't even admitted it to herself—was that she didn't want the damned Gift anymore. She wasn't quite sure when the shift had come, when she'd changed, but somewhere along the way (somewhere between Lorien and Helm's Deep, she suspected) her desire to end it all, to take her reward and drift away, had… drifted away. And now that she had spoken with Angel, and Riley, and even Spike, she was free to let go of that long-cherished idea, that goal she'd striven for for so long.

"Unbelievable," she gasped at last. "You're just frigging unbelievable. And, I might add, your timing sucks like a tornado."

"Milady?" he asked, the slightest tinge of disease to his voice. He'd never seen a reaction like that in all his lengthy life.

She bounded to her feet. "Don't call me that," she hissed at him. "You've had your tongue down my throat, don't you dare call me 'milady' like we just met at a goddamned party." Eyes alight with fury, hair gleaming in the sunlight, she was a sight to behold, one he knew he would carry with him the rest of his days.

He backed away from her, hands up in surrender and shame. "All right," he agreed cautiously. "Dagnir, then. How am I unbelievable?"

She looked at him sadly then; sadly, and with so much heartbreak and regret and pain that he thought he too might weep. "I guess it never occurred to you that you could just ask me if I still wanted my Gift, huh?" she asked, hazel eyes hard in contrast to her soft smile. "Or that, just maybe, you might be the reason I changed my mind?"

A terrible realization dawned on his face, and he just stared at her in horror. She smirked. "Guess not." And she leant over to brush the dirt from her knees and shins before tucking loose strands of hair behind her ears. "I've become that woman you would have loved, Legolas, and it's mostly thanks to you," she told him at last. "Ironic, huh? I would have stayed with you forever, and you threw me away. It was all for nothing. And if you'd only just asked me…" Her voice trailed off.

 "I used to think that real love and passion have to go hand in hand with pain and fighting, that that's where the fire in a relationship comes from." She sauntered over to Legolas, and ran her hand down the silvery spill of hair over his shoulder, up the smooth skin of his throat, to his lips. Brushing over them with her fingertips, she caressed them, watching as his eyes fell closed for a brief, blissful moment, then sighed. "But I was wrong. The fire comes from the other person loving and respecting you back, just as much as you love them." She stepped back. "I'm not doing this again."

And Buffy walked away, picking her way through the trees as silently as any elf, leaving Legolas alone with only his own tears as he realized the magnitude of his mistake, of the pain he'd caused her, of how he'd destroyed their newborn love.


	8. Chapter 18

Author's Notes: A longer chapter, this has over 3k words… usually I try to keep it between 2250 and 2750. Tell me if this seems too lengthy?

Every time I type the word 'commodore' I keep hearing Lionel Ritchie singing 'Three Times a Lady', and it makes me giggle. "And I luuuuuurve yooooooouuuuuu…"

If any of y'all are interested in what the hell I'm talking about when I mention the various bits of a ship, go here: . That's where I got all the names. It's got diagrams.

Reading is good. Reviewing is better. Constructive criticism is best. And don't you care enough to give the very best?

The Gift of Death, Part 18

Morning dawned, and there was no sun, and Legolas seemed to grow ever more despondent until even Buffy was starting to feel bad for him.

"It is not just you that troubles him," Haldir assured her. "Nor even the lack of sunlight." The severe expression on his face said that he was not overly sad that his fellow elf suffered; in Haldir's opinion, any elf who gave up on a fine love without even trying was not worth the lembas he ate. 

_That wasn't much of an explanation,_ Buffy thought, and said as much. 

"It's the gulls," her friend elaborated. "They sing of the sea, and I do not know of an elf besides myself who can resist their call."

"You do not feel their pull?" asked Elrohir (at least, Buffy thought it was Elrohir). "How is that possible?"

Haldir shrugged elegantly. "I did not become march-warden and Guardian of the Golden Wood simply because I was had naught else to do," he replied with a smirk. "Lorien gave me life, it strengthens me, and provides for me. I can do naught else but protect it, until the last time I draw breath. I have no desire to leave it, ever."

He looked to the north then, toward where his home lay across the mountains and plains. "Even now, I can hear it call to me like the gulls to any other elf… I am incomplete when I am not there, and the waiting to be back pains me like a physical wound."

Buffy stared at him in fascination. This was a side of Haldir she'd never seen—he must miss his home a lot if it made him forget his usual silent reserve and start blabbing about his private thoughts. She was also more than a little jealous, though she was loathe to  admit it—she'd never really had a home, not Los Angeles, certainly not Sunnydale. Caras Galadhon was the closest she'd ever come to really liking a place, and even then, it was still foreign. It welcomed her, but was not her home.

A shout from ahead caught her attention, and she faced forward to see yet another group offering themselves for battle. This would make the third bunch of men from the tiny villages they passed: a dozen from one, two dozen from another… This set seemed to barely contain ten men, and they were only armed with the most rudimentary weapons, like pitchforks and clubs, yet the light of battle was in their eyes. They were willing to die for what they believed in, and that made them formidable warriors, to Buffy's way of thinking. Passion would triumph over cold skill any day.

Behind them, the Shadow Host was still following. The elves were immune to them, the humans unnerved but bearing up well. Poor Gimli, however, was completely freaked out and Buffy tried as best she could to comfort him. She'd coaxed him into telling her more than anyone ever wanted to know about Dwarven metalworking techniques, but it seemed to take his mind off things, so she just kept nodding and smiling as he yapped on.

Then the scout Aragorn had sent ahead came back. "Not two leagues ahead," he began, breathless from his exertions. "The entire fleet of Umbar, each with black sails unfurled."

"Pirates?" Buffy piped up, interested, but everyone frowned at her, and she slumped back to pout. Legolas and the twins, however, seemed enchanted by the idea of huge ships, no matter that they flew the Jolly Roger. Already, she could see their noses twitching, trying so hard to smell the salt air that they strongly resembled rabbits. 

"Pirates," Gimli grumbled from his perch behind her on the horse. "Demons, dead people coming back to life, trees that talk, Uruk-hai, girls jumping through portals, ghostly specters, and now pirates. I wonder what I have done to so offend the great Eru that he would punish me so."

"Tis but your axe-skill and loyalty that have brought you to this sad end, sir dwarf," Aragorn told him with a faint grin. "Were you lazy, or talentless, or cowardly, you could be home right now in your mountain, feasting on haunches of beef and as much ale as you could hold without floating away."

Gimli heaved a great sigh, his breath gusting over the back of Buffy's neck. "It has ever been my downfall," he said modestly, and she rolled her eyes. God, she was bored. What she wouldn't give for a Gameboy, or even a book, thus proving the depth of her desperation… there was nothing to look at, here in the plains of Lebennin. Everything was blackened and trampled, and very depressing in general. 

As they drew closer to the Anduin, which Aragorn called the Great River, the scent of the sea became more pungent and Legolas began to look positively feverish, his eyes glowing eagerly for his first glimpse of the ships. "I see them," he said at long last, gaze fixed due east, and the twins snapped their heads around. 

"Yes," agreed Elladan (Buffy thought). "At least fifty strong, both large and small." He turned to Aragorn. "What mischief have you in your pocket, that we will be able to defeat them?"

And Aragorn just grinned at his foster-brother. "Doubt me not, Elrohir," was all he said, and Buffy frowned that she'd once again wrongly identified the twin.

"Do not grimace so," Haldir whispered beside her. "He too only guesses which is which. It was mere luck that he was right this time."

"And how is it that **you** know which is which?" she asked him archly.

He only raised a brow. "I am an elf," he replied, as if that explained everything.

"Oh, yeah," said Buffy. "I had actually forgotten for 10 seconds. Thanks for reminding me, Hal."

He glowered. "Do not call me that, **Buffy**," he snapped.

"Would you prefer I call you Oscar?" she asked sweetly, and somehow Haldir managed to frown even deeper.

"I would not," he said with dignity, and spurred his horse a smidgen further ahead, nose in the air, Buffy's laughter following him. 

When they arrived finally at the Anduin it was still black as pitch and only the small pools of light thrown by the torches illuminated their surroundings. Buffy was intensely glad of her Slayer-vision, and knew the elves were equally thrilled to have their special sight as well. 

"What do you see?" Aragorn asked, his voice low in her ear as they dismounted and stood to survey what would become a field of battle.

She squinted a little. "I see a huge bunch of boats tied up at rickety docks, probably all loaded with nasty, unwashed Corsairs," she replied. "Wouldn't seem to rate high in the 'fun places to hang out in Middle-Earth' guidebook." She squinted harder. "They can see us too, thanks to the torches." 

Aragorn immediately motioned for them to be doused, but she waved her hand. "Naw, don't bother. They know we're here, and they're laughing at us."

"Laughing?" queried Elrohir (she was positive it was him, this time). "Why would they laugh at us?"

"Perhaps because we are a force a quarter their size, and consist mostly of peasants armed with farm implements, Elladan?" Haldir replied testily. Buffy swore under her breath—wrong twin, again. She was thisclose to making them wear signs around their necks. Elladan narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to reply in kind.

"Enough," Aragorn admonished mildly. "Let us first slay our foes, before we begin slaying each other."

"Good plan," Buffy agreed. "Listen, Strider, I have an idea." She pulled him away from the others, not wanting them to hear in case her brilliant idea actually sucked. "I was thinking, there's no way we can win this if we have to go on the offensive against all of them, but if we can somehow make some of them leave the boats, we can ambush them and take them down easily."

He was still listening, stroking his stubbly chin in consideration. "We can plant small groups around the docks, and attack when they disbark." She nodded. "And I think I know a way to make them do just that."

With that, he went to the front of their group and began to shout. "Now come! By the Black Stone, I call you!" It took Buffy a second to figure out he was summoning the ghosts. The living pulled away, as far as they could, while the dead swarmed around their king. Aragorn was doing a fair job of pretending he wasn't thoroughly unnerved by the presence of so many shades completely surrounding him. "Drive them away!" he commanded them, and there wasn't the slightest tremor in his voice. "Cast them into the sea!"

And the Shadow Host left them, all turned resolutely toward their quarry. The faint laughing Buffy and the elves could hear in the distance began to fade as the ghosts approached the ships, Aragorn's forces following behind, until the only sound was the slapping of waves upon the rickety docks and stony shore. For a long, endless moment, there was silence.

And then all hell broke loose.

As the first specters reached the docks and began climbing aboard, shrieks of fright became screams of horror, and the pirates began to flee any way they could—running back away from the pursuing ghosts, they ran back and forth on the decks until they were cornered, and then jumped into the swirling black depths below. 

Those who managed to leave the ships, or swim to shore, were met by an angry mob of peasants wielding their pitchforks with great ire. Aragorn motioned for Buffy, Gimli, and the elves to hold back. "This is their fight," he said. "It is their land that has been ravished, their people who have been abused. Let them have their vengeance."

Once their foes had been dispersed, however, and it was time to take control of the fleet, they made the unpleasant realization that it had only been the slaves and common seamen who'd fled their ships—the hardened sailors and officers had not been much phased by the confrontation of a company of ghosts, and had merely laughed them away.

"We need those ships," Aragorn muttered. "We cannot allow them to remain in the control of Sauron."

"Then let's go get them," Buffy replied grimly, adjusting her grip on the sword she held in one hand, and the axe she held in the other. "Split up, put at least one elf and one Ranger in each raiding party."

Aragorn nodded, liking her plan. Buffy felt the air move behind her, and knew instinctively that Haldir had stepped to her side. "Legolas, Gimli, with me," he told those two. "Halbarad, with Elladan…" he continued pairing them off until there was a small company for each of the largest ships. "And we go!"

As one, they advanced upon their respective targets. Buffy gazed up at the rigging with speculation, making Haldir quite nervous.

"What are you going to do?" he asked with great apprehension as she tucked the handle of the axe in her belt and sheathed her sword.

"She flies through the air with the greatest of ease," she sang, very off-key, and bounced a little on the swaybacked gangplank, at the end of which were massed a sizeable group of Corsairs all waiting to begin the bloodshed. She began to bounce harder and then suddenly launched herself with a mighty leap trampoline-style, sailing up and reaching out to grab a dangling rope. "The daring young chick on the flying trapeze," she finished, then, "Dammit." 

She was just a bit too high, and there was no time to climb lower, as the Corsairs had attacked the others. Tying the rope around her ankle, she pulled out her axe and let herself drop to hang upside-down. "Now we're cooking with gas!" she exclaimed happily, and lopped off her first head. 

"Dagnir!" Haldir shouted. "Idiot girl!" He dismembered one, then two enemies, trying to push his way through the mass of fighting bodies to her. "The rope is slipping!"

And so it was. Buffy could feel it loosen even as she swung the axe at a particularly ugly sailor. _This is not of the good_, she thought, trying to gauge exactly how far she was from the deck (about twenty feet) and if she would be able to land on someone soft and squishy (doubtful). Then the rope gave up its last bit of grip around her ankle, and Buffy squeezed her eyes shut, resigning herself to bruises on her backside, splinters, and quite possibly the mother of all concussions. 

She felt nothing around her for a brief, thrilling moment, and then a hard arm grabbed her round the waist and pulled her tight to an all-too-familiar body. Opening her eyes, she found herself staring right into the brilliant blue gaze of Legolas. He was holding onto a rope from the next ship over, and had obviously swung from it to save her. 

His face was absolutely extraordinary-looking, even more so than usual, because it held none of the typical expressions. Buffy was used to Neutral!Legolas, Amused!Legolas, Angry!Legolas, even Aroused!Legolas from that lone clinch they'd had in Edoras prior to the battle at Helm's Deep. But this was a Legolas she had never encountered, and not only was she hard-put to recognize it, she could hardly believe it.

Because this was Legolas-in-love, and he was staring at her like he wanted nothing more than kiss her for a few centuries. 

"Way to go, Tarzan," she said, forcing some cheer into her voice. "You saved me."

"I will always save you, Dagnir," he told her seriously, as if they weren't dangling thirty feet above the ground by his arm, and she hadn't called him some strange name that was not his own. "I will always come for you. Even if you do not want me to." He looked down then, as if embarrassed, or ashamed. "I will never turn from you again."

Before Buffy could reply to this astonishing statement, however, Haldir's none-too-dulcet tones sounded from below. "If it is not too much of an imposition," he yelled up at them, and cut down a huge bald guy clad only in ragged trousers and a peg leg, "Do you think you might resolve your problems at a later date?" Another chap, sporting a quite unfortunate set of blackened teeth, met the edge of the march-warden's blade and crumpled with a cry of pain. "Perhaps when we are not in the **midst of a pitched battle**?" His last words were heavily laced with sarcasm and a total lack of patience.

"An excellent idea, Guardian," shouted Aragorn from his ship, where he was clashing swords with its captain. "Couldn't agree more. Your assistance would not be amiss here, Legolas."

Familiar laughter could be heard from the opposite end of Aragorn's ship. "No, do not worry yourselves," Gimli called to them, masterful arcs of his axe taking out entire clusters of men at a time. "If it means you two will cease making cow-eyes at each other, I will gladly fight by myself to the death."

Buffy felt herself blushing, and looked away from Legolas, only to find that he had buried his face against her hair. "Forgive me," he whispered, kissing her ear, then pulled back to meet her eyes. "Forgive me?"

"I—I'll have to think about it," she replied uncertainly. Not the best of times to really have a good ponder about her love life, after all. 

He nodded solemnly. "Perhaps this will assist you in your decision," he murmured, and lowered his mouth to hers. 

Oh, this was heaven, she thought dreamily as the sounds of the battle below faded into nothingness. All that existed were what she could feel and smell: her body tight to his, silken hair spilling over her hands around his neck, his satin lips and velvet tongue caressing her mouth while that amazing scent of his swirled around them, wrapped them in a private cocoon…

"Dagnir!" cried someone from below, and something bounced off her ass with a solid thunk to land with an even more solid thunk to the deck below.

Frowning, she pulled away and squinted down. "I'm gonna ask you this once, and then I'm gonna get testy," she hollered, her hands coming away from Legolas to grab the rope. "Did you just throw a peg leg at me?" she demanded of Haldir, starting to climb down. "Did you?" Once she had both feet on the deck, she swung on the end of Legolas' rope to slingshot him back to Aragorn's ship.

"Would I do that?" he asked with a smirk, and disarmed his opponent with an almost casual flick of his wrist.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. "In a heartbeat, you would."

Haldir turned away, nose lifted to the stratosphere. "Hmpf."

"It was me," confessed Elrohir (she was sure it was him! He was wearing that green tunic that he'd had on when Gimli had called him Elrohir!) from behind her, and shot an arrow over her shoulder to take out a short, fat Corsair running at them with murder in his beady little eyes. "We have subdued our ship, and Elrohir stands on the bow, ready to command it." He pointed two ships over, and Buffy saw his twin as described, foot resting majestically on the base of the bowsprit while the wind blew his hair back in a most dramatic way.

"So you're Elladan, then?" she asked grumpily, and swiped her axe idly at a gangly sailor wearing an eye patch, then watching him fall. The elf only nodded serenely at her, and she scowled. "Gonna make one of your dye your hair purple, or something," she said, turning to engage another foe before realizing that eye-patch-guy had been the last.

"To me!" Aragorn bellowed from his ship. As the largest, it not only had the greatest number of sailors on it, but the best and most experienced fighters, and the commodore of the fleet as well. The Ranger was currently engaging that man in combat, and as he'd been fighting for a while already and the commodore was relatively fresh, Aragorn wasn't doing so well.

Elladan eyed the ropes above, as if considering Legolas' preferred method of travel, but Haldir grabbed the dark elf's arm and yanked him along toward the gangplank. "Dagnir?" the march-warden prompted when he saw her studying the ropes as well. "Do not even think it."

"Not gonna use the ropes," she protested, looking a little like a sulky child who'd gotten caught being naughty. He nodded and continued to drag Elladan behind him, and so did not see Buffy take a running leap across the deck, jump into a handstand, and spring herself across the expanse of water to land, with only a split-second's wobble, precisely in the centre of the fo'c'sle beside Gimli. 

"Two axes are better than one, lass," the dwarf said, his grin gleaming through his beard, and together they cleared the foredeck. "Thanks to you, I have over double the number of kills as that elf," Gimli informed her happily, nodding toward the crow's nest of the mizzenmast, where Legolas sat calmly picking off sailors with his bow. Sensing their gaze upon him, he gifted them with a glorious smile, and resumed his archery.

"To me!" Aragorn roared again, sounding distinctly cross this time, and Buffy and Gimli made their way to the very rear of the ship where the Ranger was still battling the commodore. With the three of them combining their talents, the swarthy man soon fell to them.

"And then there was none!" Buffy said in triumph, pushing a sweaty hank of hair off her face. God, what she wouldn't give for a bath… even the murky water below was looking kind of enticing.

"Do not consider it, Dagnir," Aragorn told her, and for a moment she was tempted to jump right in just to tease him, but there was a deep weariness on his face that stopped her. He was leaning heavily on his sword, its point on the deck, and gazing around him at his remaining men (and woman). "What are our losses?"

"One elf injured, Halbarad and another Ranger killed, a score of peasants dead," Haldir informed him promptly, his face dispassionate, proving again why he was the most trusted warrior of elfdom. 

"And the enemy?" Aragorn inquired.

"Decimated," Haldir replied, this time with a slow smile of satisfaction, proving again why he was the most deadly warrior of elfdom. "The fleet is ours."

Aragorn found a smile within himself, as well. "Excellent." He looked around at the similarly exhausted faces surrounding him. "We shall rest now until morning, though I know not how we shall know it is the start of day. One elf, one Ranger, and a handful of Men on each ship, if you please; I do not want any of the Corsairs finding their courage and thinking to regain what they have lost."

The crowd dispersed gratefully, speaking in low voices that held none of the disheartened, dampened spirits they had prior to the battle. It would seem that it had not only served to gain them a mighty fleet of ships, but also to dispel the pessimism of the infantry and strengthen their faith not only in their leader, but in themselves.

"A masterful conflict, Estel," one of the twins told his foster-brother (Buffy decided to give up on figuring out which was which). "Elrond would indeed be proud of you."

"Screw Elrond," Buffy said with a grin. "What would **Arwen** think?" And she laughed at the sight of their mighty leader and future monarch blushing furiously under his stubble. 

"Enough teasing of the king," chastised Legolas teasingly, and his gentle smile was all for her. She lifted uncertain eyes to him. "Will you walk with me? For I would talk with you, if you will come."

Painfully aware of Aragorn, Haldir, and Gimli watching them, she ducked her head. "I—not tonight," she told his boots. "And maybe not tomorrow." She looked up. "I need more time."

"As much as you need, I will give you," he promised, and lifted her hand to his lips. She tried to pull away, as she was very dirty and sweaty, but he would not let her escape, and the warm brush of his mouth on her fingers almost made her shriek and fling her arms around him. 

I'm the Slayer, she chanted over and over to herself as he looked up over her hand, silvery lashes lowered over eyes the colour of the midday sky. _The Slayer is strong, the Slayer does not cave in just because a gorgeous elf is.. oh, God, he's running his tongue over my wrist…_

"That, surely, is quite enough, do you not agree?" Gimli asked mildly as he watched them.

"Let us hope," Haldir grumped from behind him. "For I feel my dinner wanting to revisit me, and would keep it where it presently resides."

With a last smile at Buffy, Legolas loped down the gangplank to meet up with a Ranger, with whom he would preside over a ship and small bunch of peasants on one of the smaller ships. 

"Gimli," Buffy began shakily, "Did I just imagine this whole night?" She passed a hand over her forehead. "I had another weird sleep hallucination thingy, didn't I?"

He only smirked at her, and Haldir wrapped his arm her shoulder. "Let us return to our own ship, Dagnir." Looking over at the next ship, he saw Legolas glaring daggers at him, and smiled widely at that elf.

"Will you be my first mate, Hal?" she asked with a playful grin, aware of who watched and thought perhaps seeing her flirt outrageously with someone else might be very good for him.

And Haldir obviously thought it a terrific plan as well, because waggled his golden eyebrows at her energetically. "If it will make Legolas grind his teeth like he is doing, I will be anything you like, Dagnir."

"Please do not tell me you will keep us awake into the early hours of the morning, like you did for poor Dawn back in Caras Galadhon," groaned Gimli. "I, for one, would like a decent night's sleep without having to endure Legolas pouting when we awake." 


	9. Chapter 19

Author's Note: I feel I'm on shaky ground, here… like I'm not doing a good job of keeping to the book. Please let me know if my telling of Boro and Dawn in Minas Tirith is ok, or if it needs work. Feels weak to me.

The Gift of Death, Part 19

"Should I be pleased or worried that you were devious enough to keep owning a house secret from your father all these years?" Dawn asked Boromir as she joined him in the back garden, kissing his forehead before seating herself at the table groaning from the weight of all manner of food, thanks to Pippin. 

Pippin was trying to usher Boromir into a seat and press a loaded plate into the warrior's hands. "I just can't express how pleased I am to have a proper number of meals every day, and people to stuff them into!"

Boromir cast the Hobbit an amused glance before turning back to Dawn. He'd slept for two full days, bathed, shaved, and eaten everything placed in front of him and looked so handsome she was hard-pressed not to push him into one of the bedrooms and indulge in a major make-out session. As he smiled at her, leaning back in his chair with his dark-gold hair gleaming in the dappling of sunlight through the trees, he looked relaxed, and happy, if only for a short while until the brutalities of this war came back to them.

"You should be pleased," he told her gravely. "If I were not devious, we would have had to beg Shadowfax and Timon to share their bit of straw in the stables, and Pippin here would not be able to stuff us with—what is this one, Pip, elevenses?"

Pippin rolled his eyes at the Gondorian's ignorance. "Elevenses was, oddly enough, at eleven," he told Boromir with a sniff. "It's now half-one, and we're having luncheon." And he foisted a laden plate on Dawn, who took it happily. 

"I don't know what this stuff is," she mentioned around a mouthful of lumpy brown goo, "but it kicks ass."

"Kicking ass means it's good?" Pippin asked cautiously, and at her nod, blushed with pleasure. "We call it pottage. It's naught but beef cut small, moistened with a dab of cream sauce, flavored with herbs, and thickened with a few toasted breadcrumbs."

Dawn followed the pottage with a generous helping of salad, an apple, two slices of thickly buttered bread, and a huge wedge of pie, washing it all down with a tall mug of sweet mead. When she was done, she collapsed back against her chair and sighed in satisfaction. "Pippin, if I weren't already in love with Boromir, I'd marry you."

The halfling blushed so hard the tips of his ears looked like they'd burst into flame, but before he could reply a sound echoed above them and stole the words from his lips—the arcing, echoing cry he had heard last back in the Shire as he and the other Hobbits had fled from an unimaginable evil.

"Nazgûl," he whispered, and the sound of his own voice speaking the name sent a shudder up his spine.

Boromir had been lounging in his chair, tilting it back onto its two rear legs; now he snapped it upright and leapt to his feet. Leading the way, he dashed from the garden and down the street to the wall surround this fifth level of the city. shielding his eyes against the sun's glare, he gazed out over the fields of Pelennor below. "Eru," he breathed in dismay.

Dawn couldn't see a thing; she groped in her pocket for her sunglasses and perched them on her nose before looking where he was pointing. Pippin hopped up and down, but couldn't see a thing; she lifted him to sit like a child on her hip and he too gasped in shock.

Circling in mid-air just out of bowshot were no fewer than five black flying… things… that looked like massive, hideous, cruel vultures. And just like vultures, they were circling something that caught their interest.

"Can you see, there?" the Hobbit demanded. "Men on horses!" Another piercing shriek rent the air around them, and Boromir looked torn between embracing Dawn, who was starting to look nauseous from the sheer nastiness emanating from the Nazgûl, and dashing through the tiers of the city to help the approaching riders.

Then a horn sounded, and he blanched. "That is Faramir's horn," he whispered. "I must go to him."

"I'm coming too," she insisted, and he grabbed her hand and began pelting down the street, wending their way through one gate after another, Dawn with one arm wrapped around her waist to settle her stomach and Pippin running frantically to keep up with them.

'Open the gates!" roared Gandalf as he clattered out of the stables on Shadowfax, just as Boromir and Dawn dashed around the last corner. Speeding by, the wizard grasped Dawn by the arm and swept her behind him onto the Meara's back. "Hold tight!" he cried, and as her fiancé and Pippin stared in horror, they flew as if on the same wings as the Nazgûl to meet Faramir and his companions, who now rode with frantic haste toward the haven of Minas Tirith's strong walls.

"Stay here!" Dawn screamed at Boromir as they bolted past him.

He didn't waste a moment, but ran for the stables and grabbed the first horse he could lay hand to, and took a running leap onto its back before wheeling out of the courtyard and following Gandalf and Dawn.

Dawn blinked a hank of Gandalf's long white hair out of her eyes for the third time before tiring of it and stuffing the mass of it down the back of his grey cloak. Her own hair was streaming behind her, and the wind stung her eyes. God**_damn_** this horse was fast! The powerful shifting of his muscles under her, the motion of his legs as they ate up the ground and bore them swiftly toward her future brother-in-law was astonishing.

"Why did you grab me?" she asked, shouting to be heard over the increasingly loud cries of the Nazgûl's flying creature thingies, and wishing she didn't need to clutch him with both hands to stay on Shadowfax, so she could hug her gross-feeling belly. "I'm not well. I feel all oogy."

They were bearing down now, just as the Nazgûl were, and the glint of sun on metal told Dawn that Faramir and the others had drawn their swords. 

"Do you remember when we met in Fangorn?" Gandalf hollered back at her, and now it was his beard that slapped her in the face. Spitting it out, she grunted in the affirmative. "I said I would help you with being the Key. That time has now come." 

She wanted to ask him more, but there was no time; Gandalf had placed them between the Nazgûl and Faramir's group; those five knew instinctively to make for the city, and Dawn looked back to watch their progress. She was not at all surprised to see Boromir riding hell-for-leather toward them, his mount lagging far behind the magnificent Shadowfax. She hoped he'd be smart and help his brother back to Minas Tirith instead of joining her and Gandalf; she had no idea what the wizard had in mind but she was fairly certain it would be dangerous.

Then she sighed, for after shouting instructions to Faramir, her boyfriend (who she was totally going to yell at later) started riding toward them again. "Great, we're not even married yet and already he's not listening to me," she grumbled.

Her attention was drawn from Boromir, however, when one of the Nazgûl swung in an ominous arc toward them, the jaws of his airborne mount wide and dripping saliva as it screeched its soul-piercing cry. Gandalf moved then, faster than any old guy had a right to, Dawn thought; he grabbed her left hand with his, and dug his fingernail into the soft flesh of her palm until it drew blood. Crying more from surprise than pain, Dawn struggled to free herself from his grip but he was inexorable. 

The moment the first drop of blood fell into the air, a pinpoint of green light appeared, and with the second drop, it grew. By the third drop it was the size of a plum; with the fourth, an apple; with the fifth, a good-sized grapefruit, and just large enough for Gandalf to put his hand through.

He released her then, and plunged his left hand into the flat, shimmering glow of green while the right he held, palm-out, toward the advancing Nazgûl in what Dawn privately called 'the Supremes position'. "Stop in the name of love!" she shouted, then began giggling.

Gandalf shot her a puzzled, and exasperated, glance even as a column of white light, purer even than Shadowfax's shining coat and crackling with immense power, sliced through the air toward their foe. The flying beast wailed and swerved, and apparently the whole group of them decided then that discretion was the better part of valour, for they flapped their mighty black wings and rose in lazy corkscrews until they vanished into a dark, ominous cloud hovering above.

Gandalf remained there, his posture stiff and tense, until he was sure the sound of their wingbeats had faded to the east, over the river and mountains. Then he relaxed and Dawn took it as her cue to tumble from Shadowfax, clutch her middle, bend over, and puke up all the luncheon she had only just ingested in a spectacular display of projectile vomiting.

Boromir, who had just reached them, pulled his horse up sharply. "Urgh," he said, or something like it. The delicately green tint to his face said he wasn't a very good nurse where queasy patients were concerned. "Gandalf, you will help her, will you not?"

Gandalf was cleaning the small smear of Dawn's blood from his hand, and barely glanced up to shoot them an amused smirk before resuming his task. 

Dawn was a most unappealing shade of mint herself, and she frowned at Boromir. "If you can't handle me being nauseous, what are you gonna do when I have morning sickness?"

"Morning sickness?" he asked faintly. "What is that?"

"It's the daily fun-time when a woman is pregnant. During her first few months, she barfs like every day." She stomped over to him and held up her arm for him to help her mount behind him.

"You mean to do this every day, when you are breeding?" Now Boromir was pale, as well as green, and pointedly ignoring her outstretched hand.

"Not like I'd want to," she said grumpily, waggling her fingers in his face. "And don't call it breeding; sounds like something you do with poodles." He frowned, and she could almost hear him think, _What are poodles?_ She sighed. "Just help me up, Mr. Pesty."

He eyed her with trepidation. "You will not be sick again?"

"And if I were?" Dawn demanded testily. "You gonna leave me out here to walk back alone?"

Now it was Boromir's turn to sigh. "You know I would not." He grasped her arm at last, settling her behind him. "And I do not think I like that nickname."

"If you are quite finished, Mr. Pesty?" Gandalf inquired politely. "I believe you would like to speak with your brother, would you not?" He ignored the sour look Boromir leveled on him, because he was grinning too hard.

When they returned to the city, they learned that Faramir had gone immediately in to Denethor to report on his activities during the past ten days of his absence from Minas Tirith. Gandalf insisted upon joining them immediately and stalked off, his face set grimly. Boromir and Dawn, meanwhile, returned to his house, where she set about brushing her teeth for a half-hour straight. 

"Finally," she said with relief when she exited the small bathing chamber off her bedroom, to find a strange but eerily familiar-looking man sitting before the fire with Boromir. Must be Faramir, she thought, because he resembled her honey so closely she could almost think they were twins.

Both men stood and Boromir took her hand, smiling warmly at her before turning to his brother. "This is Dawn," he told Faramir proudly. "We are betrothed."

Faramir reached for her free hand, pressing a brief kiss of greeting to it, studying her all the while. His hair was darker than Boromir's, and his eyes were a lighter blue, and he had grown a full, short beard while his brother merely possessed a goatee, but the resemblance was uncanny. "You two must get your looks from your mother," she blurted out, then gasped in horror, mentally kicking herself. _Stupid, stupid_, she chastised, but they only laughed.

"Indeed we did," Faramir replied, and smiled, then greeted Gandalf as the wizard and Pippin entered the room. 

"How fared your meeting with our father?" Boromir asked, his eyes hardening. 

Faramir turned away then, his back to the others as he stared into the crackling flames in the hearth. "He is as venomous as usual," he murmured bluntly. "He feels Gandalf has poisoned you against him. He wished it had been me who had joined the Fellowship in your place, so you would still be ruling by his side, and I would be the one exiled from the house of Denethor."

There was a brief, horrified silence before Gandalf spoke, his voice rumbling in the darkening room. "In other news, however, Frodo and Sam still live, and are well on their way to Mount Doom."

"Oh, good," Dawn replied with heartfelt relief. She'd worried quite a bit about them ever since they'd parted from the rest of the Fellowship. "How's Frodo doing?"

Faramir's expression turned even more grave, somehow. "It strains him deeply," he answered. "I fear for him. Glad I am, though, that Sam stays by his side. He is ever a stalwart ally."

Boromir grinned down at Pippin. "Hobbits are a hardy race, it would seem, and a loyal one." he said. "We cannot make this one go away, no matter how we try."

"If you would have me take my leave, milord, you have only to say," replied that halfling stiffly, only to eep in surprise when Dawn caught him up in her arms and hugged him fiercely. 

"You're not going anywhere!" she declared. "Who's gonna feed me if you leave?" 

"You really should put him down now," Boromir told her, trying not to laugh. "Tis not proper to maul a Hobbit."

"You're just jealous that he's getting snuggles and you're not," Dawn accused, leaning over Pippin to plant a kiss on Boromir's chin.

"Yes," he agreed blandly. "I am jealous Pippin, indeed. If only you would pick me up like a child and kiss me chastely! Ah, how happy I would be!" He clasped his hands dramatically over his heart and heaved an exaggerated sigh, fluttering his eyelashes.

Dawn set Pippin down and took a few steps until she was only a hair's breadth away from Boromir. "You," she informed him, "are a drama queen."

He frowned. "I do not know what that is, but it does not sound good," he said, and glowered a little at her, his gaze intent on her face, turned up to him. Gandalf gave Faramir and Pippin a credible smirk and motioned for them to follow him out; he and Pippin would find other lodgings for that night. 

"It means that you love making a big deal out nothing, that you like causing a scene," Dawn told him, a faint sigh escaping as his arms came around her and pulled her tightly against him. She slid her hands up the broad plane of his chest to encircle his neck, and she delved her fingers into the thick, curling locks at the nape of his neck, shivering a little at the low growl that came from his throat at her actions.

"And if I do?" he asked, nipping with strong white teeth along the line of her throat. "Then what?" And his hands roamed down her back to cup her backside in his hands and lift her snugly against him. 

She did not answer; dazed blue eyes stared at him when he pulled back to see her response. "Huh?" she asked, voice slurred with desire. 

Boromir only smiled down at her, and placed a kiss at each corner of her mouth. "I love you," he said. "Are you sure you are ready to lie with me? Because if we do not stop this soon, I will ravish you to within an inch of your life, sweet."

She grinned impishly up at him. "Would that be a promise, then?" And she raised up on tiptoes and planted a deep, passionate kiss on him that he returned with great enthusiasm, not breaking it even when he swung her up into his arms and carried her into his bedchamber. "I just love it when you take charge, you man, you," she gasped when he tossed her to the bed and shut the door behind him before beginning to remove his layers of tunics. 

And Boromir just grinned back at her, eyes gleaming.


	10. Chapter 20

Author's Note: Another 3k+ chapter, they seem to be gradually getting longer. Lime alert. Boro n' Dawn lime, to be specific. Tell me if it's hot, or if it's not.

Just in case you're wondering what my 'mood' music is for naughty scenes: Adagio for Strings by Samuel Barber. None better, darlings… I've never in my life heard anything that sounds more like a musical representation of the act of lovemaking: gradually, relentlessly building to a sweetly piercing climax and then drifting softly down to that muzzy realm of deep satisfaction, breathless and complete… ah, good stuff, darlings, good stuff. I recommend it whole-heartedly. Especially when thinking about Haldir, or Sean Bean, or Haldir, or Spike. Or perhaps Haldir. 

Trying to do something a little artsy with this chapter, at the end specifically with all the switcheroo of the scenes; tell me what you think: affected, or effective?

The Gift of Death, Part 20

Two days later, in spite of the deepening of their relationship in a most delightful way, Dawn's heart was heavy with fear. Denethor had sent Faramir out again, his only response to his son's plea to think better of him when he came back being, "That depends on the manner of your return." Boromir had wanted to go as well, but the younger brother had insisted he stay and protect Minas Tirith and Dawn. Seeing the wisdom in that, Boromir agreed, but grudgingly—he hated to miss a good fight. 

Speculation was rife about Faramir and how he fared; it was no secret how Denethor scorned his younger son in favour of his elder, and now that Boromir had repudiated his birthright there were rumors flying left, right, and centre about whether the Steward of Gondor would simply replace one son with another, or if he would bend his proud knees and make the necessary apologies in order to mend the break between them.

The next day, a messenger came with word of a mighty force approaching Osgiliath from Minas Morgul, the tower at the foothills of the Mountains of Shadow that separated Gondor from Mordor. Worse even than that was the news that the Black Captain led them, and the spirits of the people of Minas Tirith dipped even lower. 

When Gandalf heard how severely outnumbered Faramir was, he hied himself off to join the Man at once. Near frantic with apprehension, Boromir seemed to forget how he'd turned his back on his duties and spent almost all of his waking moments preparing, equipping, training, advising, and supporting the forces remaining at the White City, and Dawn and Pippin spent most of the night cuddled in thick blankets against each other on the wall, staring eastward.

"I don't know what it will do to Boromir if Faramir is hurt, or killed," she murmured, her cheek pressed to the Hobbit's curly head. "He's already freaking out, hardly sleeping or eating. I'm worried about him."

"I don't know what it will do to **me**," Pippin sighed. "For just as Merry was struck with the nobility of Theoden, and pledged himself to the service of Rohan, I am likewise stricken. Faramir is a lord one follows to the death, so strong and wise is he, and…" he trailed off then, a little shy until Dawn poked him in the side. "I too have taken a vow." She looked at him enquiringly. "A vow of fealty," he clarified. "I am Faramir's man, as Merry is Theoden's, and would even now be at his side, but he insisted I stay here and protect you." Pippin looked very morose indeed at this turn of events

 "Am I such bad company?" she griped teasingly, poking him again and making him squirm. Hobbits were, it turned out, very ticklish, and they nearly plummeted off the wall as Pippin struggled to escape their cocoon of blankets and her invading fingers. 

"Say uncle!" Dawn insisted even as they tumbled backwards to land in the dusty road. "Say it!" 

"Why… would I… say uncle?" Pippin demanded breathless his giggles. "What does… my uncle have.. to do… with anything? Or… my aunt, or my… great-grandfather, or my… third cousin twice-removed…" And so distracting her with his blabbering, he took advantage of her pondering to lunge on top and worm his hands under her arms, tickling her fiercely.

"Noooooooooooo!" Dawn shrieked, screaming with laughter. Footsteps ran up to them and stopped abruptly, and she and Pippin slowly stopped torturing each other and slumped back, exhausted and gasping. They looked up to see Boromir glaring crossly down at them, sword in his hand.

"Are you feeling better, then?" he asked dryly, resheathing his weapon and raising a dark-gold brow at her. She'd been uncharacteristically glum that morning when last he'd seen her, barely mustering some interest in the heated wake-up kiss he'd bestowed upon her.

"Besides terror about everyone's safety and a general feeling of impending doom? Yeah, I'm not doing too bad." she told him, standing and hoisting Pippin to his feet, then setting about dusting his small body off until he slapped her hands away. Grinning at her little friend, she stepped up to Boromir and more than made up for her lackluster smooching earlier that day. 

"Bleh," said Pippin at their display, and turned away to stare once more over the wall while the other two made their way back to their house for… some 'alone time'.

Gandalf returned the next day with wounded men, but swiftly told Boromir that his brother was still in good health. The pinched look left the Man's face then, and he was able to return to his tasks a little lighter of step. The wizard spent long hours closeted with Denethor, arguing about tactics and the need for a sortie from the city against Mordor's forces. When at last he left the Steward, his bleak expression told all around him without words that Denethor was not thinking or acting wisely any longer.

Time passed. Still the everlasting night was upon them, and it was uncertain what was the hour of the day. Pippin was seemingly glued to his patch of wall, gazing toward the mountains of the east for some sign of Faramir, and it was his cry of fear that alerted them to the first onset of the enemy. As they watched, individual flickers of light converged, grew, lengthened, until they looked like rivers of flame, and they were all flowing toward the White City of Minas Tirith.

"They come," Boromir said woodenly, and Dawn turned to look at him. His face could have been carved from stone, so still and grave was it. "I do not know what to do," he admitted, hands pressing hard against the top of the wall. "My brother is out there alone, my father is slowly going mad, and I… I stand here, helpless."

Dawn's heart ached for him, ached to find a way to ease his sorrow. "When it's dark," she said at last, "and I'm all alone, and I'm scared or freaked out or whatever, I always think -- what would Buffy do?"

He looked at her then, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a faint smile. "She would fling herself in every direction at once, tell some terrible jokes, become drenched in gore, die several times, and wake up in a mood so excellent we would kill her again just to get some peace."

"Sounds about right," she agreed, forcing her tone to be light and chipper before becoming serious again. "She's always saved me, Boromir." Dawn slid her arms around his waist, kissing a line up his throat to his chin. She really liked his chin. It was strong, and she suspected there was a dimple under his goatee. "I know how she thinks. This isn't about evil or good for her any more, it's about protecting those she loves. She's got people she cares about, and she won't let anything happen to us."

Boromir smiled sadly down at her. "It is good that you have such faith in your sister, Dawn, but—"

She cut him off. "No, you don't get it, Boromir." She pulled back a little to look him squarely in the eye. "I mean, Buffy will never let anything happen, not to me, or you, or Legolas, or Haldir or Aragorn or the Hobbits. She has more power than you can imagine, and she's the most stubborn jackass in the world. There is nothing in Middle-Earth, or my Earth, or any other planet for that matter, that will prevent her from keeping us safe."

He looked skeptical. "It's ok if you don't believe me," she told him, snuggling into his embrace once more. "But you haven't seen how she fights when her friends and family are involved. The way she died for us, and Haldir? It was nothing compared to how it's gonna be when she gets here."

*

Hours later, they were down at the Great Gate of the city, still fervently working to organize the sortie, when Denethor made his appearance. "I had wondered how the men were so orderly and well-prepared," the Steward said as he approached his eldest son. "Ever have you been unable to resist the role of captain, Boromir. You should not fight it; it is in your blood, a part of you like your hand or foot."

"It is not my **nature** that I fight, milord," Boromir said mildly, not meeting his father's eyes as he continued to inspect the weaponry waiting to be wielded in the battle to come. 

"Let us not be at odds, my son," Denethor said expansively, spreading his hands wide in a gesture of reconciliation. "For these times are dark enough without harsh words between us. I would have things as they were before you left for the elven city so many months ago."

Boromir did look at him then, and his eyes were cool and distant. "You would, would you?" He nodded to the soldier next to him, signaling his approval, and turned to face his father fully. "And would you also change your demeanor toward Faramir, and be not harsh and cruel to him any longer? Would you welcome Dawn to your bosom, as a daughter?" He took in Denethor's narrowing eyes and thinning lips, and shook his head, squeezing gratefully the hand Dawn slipped into his. "If you cannot show some mercy and affection to them as well as to me, then it would seem you are ever destined to disappointment. For I cannot be the son of he who abuses those he should love."

"Enjoy your orphan status, then," Denethor snarled. "For my son Boromir is dead to me, and I have but one other, and he is Faramir." His cruel gaze raked over them, lip curling as it passed over Dawn, and he stepped back as if he could not bear to pollute himself with their proximity. "Get you gone, children, for the sortie is about to take place, and only men of Gondor may take part in it."

Boromir blanched then, two livid spots of red on each cheek the only colour in his face. "You mean to make me stay behind, while the others sally forth?"

"Do not cry foul, Boromir," his father said mockingly, "for you have purchased this fate with your own coin. Defending Gondor is a privilege only a faithful son of this land can earn, and you have stripped yourself of that honour." He stared at them a long moment, his eyes flat and black, before turning his back on them and facing the gate. 

A muscle ticked in Boromir's cheek, and his free hand gripped the pommel of his sword almost convulsively until Dawn tugged him back. He stared blindly ahead of him the entire time she led him back to the house, and seemed somewhere else entirely as she struggled to remove his armour. Worried at the force of his anger, she reached up to him, thinking to soothe him with a kiss, and was surprised when his arms banded around her like iron, clasping her tightly as his mouth ravished hers.

*

The little streams of flame grew into rivers as they came closer, and Faramir's forces started to retreat back to the city, but the hordes of torch-bearing orcs and wild-haired Southron men screeching in their guttural languages were making his men nervous. Full-fledged panic broke out when the Nazgûl swooped from the sky like vultures toward particularly fragrant carrion, and Faramir's soldiers either turned heel and ran in terror, or dropped their weapons and fell to the ground, overcome with fright. 

"It is a rout," Pippin breathed, scarcely daring to speak at all as fear broke over him like waves upon the shore. But then there was the call of a trumpet, and the gates were flung open, and the sortie was away. Pippin's heart flew up to his throat when he heard a second trumpet blast, and joining the mounted forces of Gondor were those of Dol Amroth, their Prince leading them, his banner of gold and white and blue gleaming brightly even in the gloom.

And one amoung them broke away, a flash of quicksilver in the night. Gandalf charged the Nazgûl as he had before, and another column of pale flame burst from his hand. Startled, the Nazgûl pulled up hard, their beasts wailing horribly in their confusion. Inspired by this show of weakness, the Gondorians took heart and began to thrash their opponents. The torches borne by the orcs and Wildmen dashed out as their bearers fell, and the battlefield was wreathed in greasy smoke, but still they fought. 

*

Dawn was startled at his vehemence at first, until she realized that he was channeling all his fury and frustration into the kiss. She stroked his face, his hair, his shoulders, until the violence of it gentled. "I love you," she told him over and over, and it took the edge off his mood even as it whetted their desire.

Bothering to light neither lamp nor candle, they stumbled to the bedroom, knocking into walls and doors as they made their way blindly. Eager hands wrenched at stubborn buttons and lacings until they fell away; greedy mouths drank deep kisses from the other. At last, skin was to skin, and they sighed at the relief of it.

*

Despite their initial success, even the stalwart nature of Gondor could not withstand the sheer numbers of the enemy, and Denethor called another retreat. As each company re-entered the city, those remaining without the walls endeavored to protect the ones within and keep the open gates from being breached. 

It was in the company farthest from the gates that Faramir fought, the Prince of Dol Amroth at his side. Shield upraised, sword dripping black and red, he slashed and parried, hack and stabbed, and still more came at him. One of the Nazgûl pounced upon him, crashing a hard blow against his shield that rocked him to his toes, and he staggered back knowing his shoulder was dislocated at best, and broken at worst.

Filled with agony and despair, struggling to keep his shield aloft as he swiped with increasing desperation with his sword, Faramir battled on. The Nazgûl's mount reached with razored talons and grazed his forehead just where his helm left him bare; blood coursed down his face and occluded his vision; Faramir strove still. 

*

Boromir covered Dawn's body with his own; settling himself between her long thighs, he captured her mouth in a searing kiss and sheathed himself in the wet heat of her body. "Eru," he groaned, eyes almost crossing at the pleasure of it.

Dawn only sighed, and raised her knees to lock her ankles around his waist. "Yessss," she hissed in his ear, then nipped it, making him rear up over her. "Yes, Boromir, yes."

His pace, smooth at first, began like his breath to grow ragged. "You clench me tighter than any fist," he muttered into her hair, burying his face in it, breathing in her scent, feeling the silken strands catch on his sweaty skin and stubbled cheeks. "You wrap me in yourself, I am trapped, I cannot escape."

*

"We must retreat!" shouted the Prince, but Faramir ignored him, his sword arm seemingly possessed by another entity, for it was not still even a second but always moving, slicing, carving. Hot, dark blood jetted from a cleft he made in the beast's side, its scream of outrage and pain seeming to ring off the very metal of their armour. "Come, Faramir, we must go now!"

Faramir flicked his gaze from the Nazgûl for a moment; the briefest, merest splinter of a second, but it was enough. A dart shot from a second Nazgûl, hurtling toward the lord of Gondor. He saw it arcing toward him, and had he been whole and rested it would not have troubled him to avoid it, but wounded and fatigued as he was, his sluggish swerve only served to bring him more fully into its range. It seemed to hang in the air, there, as if daring him to try and escape, as if it were giving him a head start on a race to which there was only one possible end.

*

Dawn's face creased into a frown of deep concentration, as if she were working very hard to achieve a long-sought goal, and Boromir dipped his head to capture her mouth in another kiss, tasting her passion. His hips flew, and he felt himself moving against her in a near-frenzy, elbows digging hard into the mattress beneath her as he buried his hands in her hair and framed her face with his long fingers, holding her head still for the onslaught of his mouth. 

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, Dawn's entire conscious whittled down until it was focused entirely on a specific portion of her body; all sensation, all blood, all thought flowed toward it like a migration, a pilgrimage. Her body thrashed up against him, and with a hoarse cry her eyes flew open to stare at him blindly, shock and wonder plain on her features in an endlessly long moment of joy. 

"I love you," Boromir groaned, overcome, and joined her in release.

*

Faramir thought of his childhood then, of swimming in the river with Boromir when they were boys, of his first swordsmanship lesson, of his mother's smiling face before death had claimed her, even of his father looking with approval instead of censure at his youngest son. He thought of these things, and a smile came to his lips.

And then the dart hit him, and he dropped to the ground like a stone, and knew no more.


	11. Chapter 21

The Gift of Death, Part 21

Dawn and Boromir had just woken up and were about to have another go when there came a ferocious pounding on the bedroom door.

"Boromir!" shrieked Pippin's voice over the pounding. "Dawn! Faramir is wounded! You must come!"

With a bound, Boromir had disentangled himself from Dawn's limbs and was pulling on his clothes; she merely reached for her gown and pulled it over her head before yanking on her soft boots. He caught her hand in his and pulled her after him as he ran from the room. 

"Where is he?" Boromir demanded, raking his fingers through his unruly hair. 

"The houses of healing," Pippin said, then squeaked when the Man caught him up in his arms and began running toward that building.

The city of Minas Tirith was in chaos; its citizens, eyes wide with terror, scurried all over but whether they were running to or from something, Dawn could not tell. A hail of flaming missiles fell upon them, and they flattened themselves against a wall under some eaves for protection, then stomped until their feet were sore to put out the little fires that caught on the wood, the straw, the fabric awnings. 

"Tell me… what… happened," Boromir panted as they ran once more.

"I'm not sure," Pippin replied, closing his eyes as Boromir narrowly missed barrelling into a large, armour-clad soldier dripping blood from a significant shoulder wound. "The Prince of Dol Amroth bore him back to the gate, and made for the leeches, and they are closeted in a dark room. Denethor refuses to come out."

"Leeches?" Dawn demanded from behind them, where she laboured hard to keep up with Boromir's pace. She clutched a hand to her stomach as nausea swelled within her, and knew even without hearing their cries that the Nazgûl had returned. Hazarding a glance skyward, she counted eight of them… where was the ninth?

"Healers," Pippin explained from his perch on the back of Boromir, because his mount was too busy shouting at the owners of a large, laden cart of supplies that currently blocked their way to move their useless arses or he'd slay them all. 

"Honey, calm down," she admonished him gently, as he was getting very red in the face. "Just go around."

He turned desperate eyes to her, grateful that she was thinking when he could not, and obediently went around the cart to continue his frantic journey to his brother. Once at the houses of healing, however, he was turned away with no little regret by the guards stationed at the door. 

"Denethor, Lord and Steward of Gondor, has forbidden your entrance," one said apologetically even as he took a firmer grasp on his spear and adjusted his stance to one slightly more threatening. "We cannot let you pass." Boromir got a certain glint in his eye then, a glint of murder and mayhem, and Dawn hastened to grab his arm and pull him back, murmuring soothing nonsense-words to him.

"Pippin, you go in and stay with Faramir, no matter what!" she commanded the Hobbit. "If anything happens, come get us." Heartsick, she led her betrothed away to find Gandalf.

They found him in the third circle of the city on yet another of his circuits… he had assumed control of Gondor's forces in Denethor's absence, and made it a point to try and keep up the flagging spirits of its people. "But there is too much to do for just one," he said darkly, his face seeming more lined and aged than ever. He leant heavily on his staff and sighed, then turned to the Prince of Dol Amroth. 

"You take the Citadel, and the sixth circle. I shall patrol the fifth, fourth, and third. Boromir," here he turned to that Man, who was staring hard at the ground, jaw clenched as he pondered this latest betrayal by his father, "You take over the first two. The soldiers are here, and they are your men. You trained them, lead them, ruled them. They know of your father's folly, and will not fail you now."

Slightly cheered by being given a task, Boromir nodded briskly and strode off, Dawn at his side, but he was looking straight ahead, mind already whirling with thoughts of what he must do. Her tugging on his arm seemed to startle him, as if he'd forgotten she was there. "Yes, sweet?"

"What can I do?" she asked, eager to be of some assistance, and frowned when he looked about to say something she knew she wouldn't like. "And let me first inform you, there are two choices here. You can a) tell me how I can help get things ready around here, and I'll be really happy, or b) you can tell me to go back to the house where it's safe and wait for you, in which case I'll slap you so hard your eyeballs switch sockets." She smiled sweetly at him and waited for his reply.

"Fine," he grumbled at last, and continued walking, pretending to ignore her as she skipped along beside him, happy to be included. "But if you get hurt, I will tell Dagnir it was your own fault. And she will yell at you, for several weeks at least."

"I'm willing to take that risk," Dawn replied happily. 

*

After another quick dash back to the house to put on leggings, a knee-length tunic with slits up the sides to her hips, and sturdier boots, Dawn grabbed her elven pike from where it stood in the corner and ran back to join Boromir at the Great Gate. The shouts and growls of the orcish army had grown in volume, and she knew they were right outside.

"Put this on," Boromir told her, and handed her a piece of armour. Taking it, she was surprised to realize it was much lighter than it looked. 

"What is it?" she asked, struggling to drape it over her shoulders and buckle it into place around her waist. 

"Chest-plate of mithril," he explained. "And my mother's; she was a shield-maiden of Rohan before she married  Denethor. I found it in the armory whilst you changed your clothing." He nodded in the direction of that building. "Her shield lies there as well, but you cannot use it with a pike."

Dawn felt tears come to her eyes. "Thank you for trusting me," she whispered. 

He drew her close into his arms for a brief moment. "More than I fear for your life, sweet, I want you to be happy, and I know you would be greatly shamed to sit idly while we others went toward danger. I know because it is how I felt when Denethor banned me from the battlefield earlier this dark day."

Boromir bent his face to hers then, intending to kiss her, but an immense crashing noise startled them and they sprang apart.

"Holy crap!" Dawn yelled, eyes huge as the Great Gate began to shudder and quake.

"They begin to break it down," Boromir said grimly. "And we will be here to greet them when they do."

It wasn't long before the gate lay in huge splinters on the ground, and the Lord of the Nazgûl rode triumphantly through. The sight that greeted him, however, was not as hospitable as he might have wanted: for there before him stood a young human woman, an exquisitely forged pike held with ease and familiarity as her long, dark hair swirled round her in the wind; the tall and strong elder son of the Steward of Gondor, eyes ablaze with determination as he gripped his sword and shield; and between the two, seated upon a silver-white Meara named Shadowfax, was Mithrandir himself. 

"You cannot enter here," Gandalf informed the Black Captain calmly. But the Nazgûl Lord only laughed at him, and his confidence in his victory sent a chill down Dawn's spine. There was no face between the neck of his tunic and his crown; how did you fight such an enemy?

"Buffy, where are you?" she whispered. "We need you."

In the silence that fell, tense and edgy, a rooster crowed. Such a mundane sound, so common it seemed almost obscene, coming as it did in the middle of this extraordinary scene. Oddly, it gave Dawn a bit of hope—roosters had been signalling the coming of morning for time immemorial, and would continue to do so. Come what may, morning would come, and a rooster would crow, and somehow life would go on.

Later, she'd wonder if it were a coincidence, but at the time she was so happy to hear it that it never occurred to her to feel anything but overwhelming relief. No sooner had the rooster's crow faded into the murky early-morning shadows than a horn sounded in the distance, beyond the walls of Minas Tirith, to the north. 

"Great Eru," Boromir said, face shining with hope and joy. "Rohan has come."

The emanating evil of the Black Captain seemed to seethe and swell with fury, and without another jeering word he wheeled and flew off. 

"Oh, good," Dawn said fervently. "And the sun is rising, too." And so it was, the first rays of daybreak creeping over the mountains that loomed to the east. "Can't say I'm too impressed with his grand entrance. I give it a 7 for style, but 2.5 for actual substance."

Boromir was climbing onto Timon. "Dawn, will you be with me or Gandalf?"

She didn't hesitate. "Gandalf," she replied. "He'll need my Key-ness."

The wizard nodded. "I must once more draw on her power to fight the Nazgûl," he said, and reached out a hand to hoist her behind him. She settled herself and clasped his waist with one arm, stretching out the other toward her betrothed. 

"Boromir," she said, her voice low and urgent. "Whatever happens…"

"Whatever happens, know I love you always," he replied, stripping off his glove so he could grasp her hand, skin to skin. 

Dawn nodded, throat too tight to speak. "I love you," she mouthed, and then Shadowfax was sprinting away, tearing their hands apart. Her last sight of him was his hungry gaze on her as he spurred Timon to follow, and then she turned resolutely away to face what would come.

The battlefield was a horror, and it was difficult for her to use her pike while remaining seated behind Gandalf—they weren't weapons designed to be used from horseback. She poked her palm with the tip of her pike, and made a small portal before drawing Gandalf's attention to it. "Here," she said. "Enjoy." Then she hopped down and began to fight in earnest. 

It seemed like she fought for hours, but it was probably only one. She couldn't really tell after a while—the orcs that fell to her pike seemed never-ending, and with the sun gleaming so brightly in her eyes, she couldn't really see that well. Dawn mumbled yet another 'thanks' to Spike for insisting on long hours of practice, for as she continued to fight her movements took on a smoothness, an efficiency—lunge forward and skewer an orc in the throat, tug the pike free and turn as the orc died to skewer another. 

Lunge, tug, lunge, tug. It went on and on until her shoulders ached, but she couldn't let herself stop. She hadn't seen Boromir since leaving the city, and Gandalf since she dismounted from Shadowfax. Everything was a huge mess, and the piles of stinky orc corpses were truly impressive. She wondered how many of them were dead because of her, and was surprised at how apathetic and, frankly, numb she felt at the question.

Then came the familiar shriek of the Nazgûl, and she could hear Theoden scream for his men to surround him as soldiers fled in terror. Spinning in the king's direction, hair whipping around, she gaped to see his horse rear up violently and then tumble over backwards, trapping Theoden beneath its bulk. 

"Shit," she muttered then, because the Black Captain was back, and carrying a hella big mace. With him came the debilitating nausea of before, and she swallowed convulsively. "Shit." Where were all the Rohan soldiers going? Only two remained near their king; a short, slender man and… a Hobbit? Squinting, she gasped to see Merry crawling on his hands and knees. 

"Be gone!" the lone soldier commanded, and Dawn's eyes nearly popped from her head when she recognized the voice: Eowyn. "I will hinder you, if I may."

The Black Captain laughed then, like he had when he'd entered Minas Tirith. "Hinder me? No man may hinder me!"

Eowyn laughed then, and threw off her helmet, her golden hair streaming down her back in a sunlit torrent. "I am no man."

A surge of admiration filled Dawn then for Eowyn's bravery. She had enjoyed her company and appreciated her quiet strength in Edoras and Dunharrow, and liked her even more now. She had seemed somewhat predatory with Aragorn, but Dawn knew what it was like to be stressed out, scared, and then confronted with a really hot guy with loads of manly stubble. She could sympathize with the hormone overload.

_I'm probably really being stupid for doing this_, she thought even as she did it, but stepped forward to stand by Eowyn's side. "Neither am I, you big gross old loser." 

Eowyn shot her a disbelieving glance before turning back to their foe. The flying evil-bird-thingy screamed, its funky-smelling spittle flying everywhere, and leapt up to pounce on the women before it. Out of the corner of her eye, Dawn saw Merry begin to crawl his way behind the Nazgûl Lord, and then instinct took over. 

The creature's snapping jaws came just a tad too close for her comfort, and she once more fell into fighting mode. Pulling her pike back as far as she could, Dawn dug in the heels of her boots and flung herself forward, jabbing the weapon at the thing. Its point struck directly in the sinewy flesh of the creature's throat, and with a garbled, juicy moan of agony it fell like a rock, making her and Eowyn dance backward to avoid being trampled by its corpse.

"Yay me!" Dawn yelled, and pumped a fist into the air. "Who's your daddy?"

But her triumph was short-lived; the Black Captain disentangled himself from his slain mount and swung at her with his mace. Eowyn tried to hold her shield in front of Dawn, and it deflected the blow a little, but still the shock of the strike sent pain coursing through her as a horrible double-crack of breaking bone and rending shield sounded in the still air, and she fell.

"Shit,' she said for the third time that morning. "Buffy and Boromir are gonna be so pissed…" The queasiness rose in her again, but she refused to allow herself to puke and propped herself up on the elbow that wasn't broken to watch what came next. 

The Nazgûl Lord turned toward Eowyn, and was just about to smite her with his mace as well when he screamed in pain. Dawn blinked dust from her eyes to see Merry had stabbed him in the leg, and he was staggering just as much from shock as incapacitation. He turned with wrath toward the halfling but before he could take even a step toward Merry, Eowyn was there. 

She thrust her sword-point into the empty space beneath his crown, and with a sound like shattering crystal the blade splintered as both he and his killer fell to the ground. Satisfied that they were all three of them safe at last, even though Merry and Eowyn were both unconscious, Dawn grinned happily and allowed herself to pass out.


	12. Chapter 22

Author's Note: Review, please?

The Gift of Death, part 22

Boromir thought he'd seen every manner of terror and fright; he had, after all, slain countless numbers of orcs, Uruk-hai and crazed Wild-men just that morning alone, and that was not counting what had gone before at Helm's Deep, and Moria. If he hadn't seen fit to wet his trousers at the sight of the Balrog, then it was fair to say that there was little that could reduce him to a blubbering heap.

Until, that is, he saw the slight, still form of his betrothed being borne into Minas Tirith on the tall scutum-shield of a soldier from Dol Amroth. His heart stopped beating for a long moment, he was sure of it, and then resumed its customary behaviour with a painful, right thump that made him quiver from the force of it. "Dawn…"

"Hey, punkin," she murmured, lashes fluttering from the effort of trying to open her eyes. "We got him."

"We?" he asked, clasping her hand and pressing it to his lips, trying hard not to weep. "We who? Got who?"

"Eowyn, and Merry and I," she replied sleepily. "We got the big invisible guy, the one who knocked down the gates." Her head rolled a little as she passed out again, and he stepped back, dashed the tears of relief and pride from his cheeks with the back of his hand.

"Bring her right away to the houses of healing," he said, trying to infuse his voice with authority instead of the weak, scared-sounding whisper that came from his mouth. "And care well for the other lady, and the Hobbit." They three were carried away, and Boromir took a moment to breathe deeply and compose himself. 

Dawn was injured, aye, but still alive and with excellent chance for recuperation. But the battle was far from over, and though he longed to sit by her side until she woke again, he knew he could not. The valiant Timon had fallen to an orcish sword, and Boromir had been forced to return for another mount if he were to remain as effective as he had been—on foot, he was a mighty warrior, but astride he was a true angel of death, and death was what counted on a day like today.

Choosing another horse from the stables, he led it forward and mounted, casting a last look back toward the sombre procession of Dawn and the others toward the houses of healing before wheeling round and launching himself back into the fray.

He sliced, he slashed, he stabbed and hewed and carved. Over and over, death without end. In the distance to the north, he saw Eomer beneath the banner of Rohan, and to the south was the Prince. Hacking his way to those of Dol Amroth, he glanced toward the river and felt the blood leave his face at what he saw.

For coming round the bend in the mighty Anduin was a fleet, black-sailed and ominous. Pointing his sword with a trembling hand, he drew the Prince's attention to it. To his credit, the Prince merely nodded and looked even grimmer, allowing no trace of fear to show on his regal face.

"We press back to the west, against the walls of the city," the Prince announced. "We cannot become trapped between the orcs and the Corsairs."

And so they moved back, and sent their forces out to the north a bit until their men on that end joined with the most southron of Rohan's, and like a long, broad wave they began to surge forward, pressing down toward the approaching ships. The horns of Rohan, of Gondor and of Dol Amroth blared a constant fanfare of calling to all men to fight, and Boromir fixed his attention to it as his arm worked automatically to exterminate the vermin flocking before him. 

"That's… interesting," came the Prince's calm comment from beside him, even as he beheaded an orc, and Boromir looked up to find that instead of the infamous skull-and-crossbones flag, another banner entirely was flapping and furling from the tallest mast of the fleet. In the centre of it was the White Tree of Gondor, but around it were stars that glittered and sparkled in the clear sunlight, and there was a golden crown sparkling above the tree.

"Holy crap," Boromir breathed, unconsciously borrowing Dawn's favourite expression of shock. "It's Aragorn."

Strength and courage renewed, he flung himself once more into the battle, always keeping one eye on the ships. It was not long until they weighed anchor and large ramps were extended to the shore, and with a mighty blast of a horn, riders came thundering down the plain toward them. 

There was Aragorn himself, and on his right was Legolas with Gimli behind. To his left was Dagnir, long braid flying behind her as she rode hell-for-leather, crouched low over her horse's neck and grasping the reins with one hand while the other clutched a rather large axe. Just behind was a sizeable group of tough-looking men, and a smattering of elves. They looked like the very incarnations of death, but more noble a sight Boromir had never seen, and he felt his spine go weak with relief and gratitude that his friends had arrived.

The river was to the East; Boromir and the Prince pushed East, Eomer moved South, and Aragorn worked his way North until the enemy was hemmed in on all sides. 

"How do you feel about taking down that group of orcs over there?" Aragorn asked Buffy, pointing with his sword while she swept her axe around her in a flurry, chopping off limbs and heads willy-nilly.

"I feel pretty good about it," she replied with a grin, and took off in the direction he indicated. She didn't have to look behind her to know that both Legolas and Haldir were following. She felt a surge of energy, of power, and smiled grimly. How many times had she gone into battle with Giles, and Xander and Willow? Sometimes there had been Oz, or Riley, or Cordelia, or Angel, and that last time Spike had been ally instead of enemy, but the core group of Scoobies hadn't changed. 

She had new Scoobies here in Arda, she thought with amazement. For all the times she'd fought and killed, in these last moments as she faced death, barrelling across a war-torn plain surrounded by beloved allies with a massed horde intent on killed them in front of her, she'd never felt so completely, gloriously alive, and Buffy knew finally why she no longer wanted her Gift.  

The moment stretched, lengthened, and sounds seemed to fade away… the howl of the wind, the lapping of the waves, the thud of the horse's hooves, the shouts of the men. The was nothing but her breath and her heartbeat, and she glanced to her right to see Legolas with a matching expression of exhilaration on his beautiful face. 

He looked to her then, and smiled his blinding, pure smile. Behind him, Gimli gave his axe a happy little wave. To her left was Haldir, his movements fluid as he controlled his horse effortlessly with only his legs, both arms occupied with his bow. In the distance was Aragorn and his foster-brothers, all three looking so regal that she felt her heart swell with affection. Buffy didn't know what was going to happen after this, but in that moment, there was perfection, and she found herself grinning back.

And then they reached the orcs, and with a jarring shock time sped up again, and all her senses rushed back, and then there was just chaos. Aside from the occasional death-scream of a horse, the cries of Man and Orc blurred together into a dull roar in the background, and after her mount was killed from beneath her, Buffy found herself once more wielding two weapons at once, the more efficient to decimate the enemy. 

For hours she fought, occasionally catching a glimpse of the others. There were the twins, fighting back-to-back as they took on a host of Wild-men; there were Legolas and Gimli still astride Arod and keeping score of their kills ("forty-two!"); there was Haldir with a few of his elves, somehow managing to keep that arrogant eyebrow quirked even as he took down opponent after opponent; and there was Aragorn, holding no less than four orcs at bay while Narsil flashed in the sunlight. 

She fought her way to his side, barely sparing a glance for those she felled, and was rewarded with his grim but pleased smile. 

"Ah, Dagnir, we fight together again," he greeted her, and ran an orc through. "And here I was thinking we would not share in the joy of bloodshed this fine day."

She squinted at him through narrowed eyes, and sliced off the sword arm of a Wild-man. "You're a very complex man, aren't ya?"

He only smiled blissfully, and Buffy turned back to her fighting with an eye-roll and a smile of her own. He was a nut, but he was **her** nut, that crazy Aragorn. "Eomer is up to the north, Strider, did you see?"

"I did not," he admitted, "but Boromir wends his way from the west." He lunged and slashed an orc across its beefy chest, then knocked it soundly on the forehead with the pommel of his sword. It dropped like a stone. "I do not see Theoden, or Gandalf." His tone was worried.

"I don't see Dawn, either," Buffy said. "I'm thinking that Boromir locked her in a cellar somewhere, because that's the only way she'd stay out of a fight like this." She could feel Aragorn's gaze on her, and refused to meet it; she was pretending that Dawn was perfectly safe and whole, because she couldn't bear anything else. 

"So! What goes on with you and Legolas, Dagnir?" he asked as he came up against a particularly large orc, and spun in a circle as he swung his sword in order to get maximum momentum. Unsurprisingly, he cleft the creature almost in half when Narsil connected. 

"I have no idea," she replied over the din, then flinched when a particularly enthusiastic Wild-man got right in her face. "Ugh," she groaned, and shoved him away. "Your mouthwash just ain't cutting it." To prove her point, she cut his head off. "Ever think that maybe there's something wrong with us?"

Aragorn looked at her oddly. "How so?"

"Well, you know," she said, frowning, "this whole cavalier attitude we've got going for us… We've killed almost a hundred today each, and we're cracking jokes while we do it. Is that wrong?"

He seemed to give it some thought even as he engaged an Uruk-hai in combat. Stronger, faster, and smarter, this one required more of his attention than your standard garden-variety orc. "I think that it is the only way we can accept the destruction we cause," he said at last. "And it is not as if we do Arda a great disservice by removing orcs and the like from it. These are not exactly fine, upstanding citizens that we slay."

"Ow," Buffy said by way of a response, as she'd been paying more attention to Aragorn's engagement of the Uruk than her own opponent, and he managed to slip his sword past hers to score a long cut down her arm. "Dammit."

"You are injured?" Aragorn inquired, not looking away from his foe. 

Already the blood was beginning to course in rivulets. "Just a little," she told him, wiping the exultant expression from her attacker's homely face when she lobbed her axe at him, lodging it firmly in his chest, "but I'm going to fall back a little so I can bind it." 

Aragorn nodded and she began to hack her way toward the knot of Rangers and elves fighting toward the rear, knowing they would surround and shield her while she bound her wound. Halfway there, she found Gimli blithely swinging his axe to and fro like a child swinging a basket, and was not at all surprised to realize he was humming a jaunty tune.

"Where's Legolas?" he asked her, not seeming terribly concerned. "We have been separated almost an hour now."

Buffy, however, became **very** concerned, and forgetting how her arm bled, began scanning the crowd around them with increasing intensity. "I don't see him, Gimli!" she exclaimed, aware her voice was shrill with worry. "I don't see him!"

The dwarf's brow creased in a frown, and he opened his mouth to speak when a Ranger battled his way over to them. "Do you speak of the Mirkwood elf?" he asked, shouting over the noise. When both nodded, he continued. "Not ten minutes ago, I saw him surrounded by a fierce band of Southrons over there. He pointed in the direction. "We tried to reach him but he went down beneath their weapons before we could." He smashed his sword sideways into the skull of an orc, then jabbed it deep into the creature's belly.

Buffy felt like her very soul was draining from her, and spots of all colours danced in her vision. Gimli howled wordlessly, and in his sorrow redoubled his efforts against the enemy, sending one after another flying, dripping blood and gore as they died in mid-air, but Buffy blinked and whispered, "No."

And then she grabbed up a sword that lay discarded on the ground, and began a whirling maelstrom of destruction as she wove, leapt, ducked, and simply bashed her way toward where Halbarad had said he'd seen Legolas last. 

"Come to claim his pretty corpse?" grunted an Uruk-hai blocking her path, twirling his club in a menacing way. "You will make a fetching carcass yourself, Dagnir." And he grinned at her, revealing blackened, bloodstained teeth.

"Ooh, scary," she told him, unimpressed. "There are a lot of scarier things out there, though." She swung her borrowed sword, slicing his head off effortlessly. "And I'm one of them." Not even watching as his body fell to the ground, she strode past him to where Legolas lay crumpled on the ground.

His bright hair was like a beacon, drawing her to him. So incongruous, so beautiful even lying in the muck and blood and offal, his fair face exquisite in repose. "No," Buffy whispered, dropping a sword and taking his hand in hers. Somehow he'd managed to remain spotlessly clean with the sole exception of the sword wound in the middle of his chest, and it seemed so very wrong to dirty his hand with her grimy one. "Please, no."

The world seemed to recede, and her vision narrowed to a pinpoint: there was nothing else in the universe except Legolas, and the fact that he was dead. For the first time since becoming Slayer twenty years ago, Buffy Summers forgot to pay attention to the danger around her.

And so it was no real surprise to anyone when an orc realized one of the enemy was crouched on the ground, crying over a dead elf, and with a hoot of elation, ran her through. She didn't cry out, only let out a sigh, and tumbled forward onto Legolas, her face coming to rest in the crook of his throat and shoulder. His delectable scent surrounded her, and it was the last thing she was aware of as she died. Again.


	13. Chapter 23

The Gift of Death, Part 23

When Buffy awoke again, it was not on the battlefield, nor in Minas Tirith, nor any other place she had ever been. It was a large, empty plane with only the odd boulder here and there, quite colourless and vacant. The air was cool and moist, and while there didn't seem to be any sunlight per se, the entire area was suffused with a soft, grey glow. It looked a little familiar… where had she seen it before?

Then the memory of the last few moments of her life came crashing over her and she fell to her knees in the resultant weakness. "Legolas," she whispered in despair, tears wetting her hands as she cried into them.

"Yes?" he replied from behind her, and she made an ungainly leap to her feet and spun around to face him. There he stood, hair only slightly dishevelled as he frowned down at his wound, fingering the ragged edges of the bloody rent in his tunic while she gaped at him. 

"You're not dead?" she whispered, eyes roaming over him greedily. It was all she could do to keep from launching herself from him, touching his skin to feel its living warmth, lay her head against his chest to hear his heartbeat.

"I have never been dead before, so I cannot be sure," he said thoughtfully. "We elves are supposed to go to the Halls of Mandos." Legolas looked around him with great doubt. "This place does not appear to be them." He frowned deeper. "At least, I hope it is not."

"Hey, it's not much but it's home," came a cheerful voice, and they both turned to see Skip approaching, smiling widely. Legolas stepped in front of her, to protect her with his body. 

Buffy groaned. "Whenever you show up, something big is about to happen." She looked up at Legolas, still in shock after her last sight of him had been his still, cooling body on the ground. "It's ok, he won't hurt us." The elf only nodded down at her, but did not relax his stance.

"What can I say?" Skip asked, spreading his hands wide. "When the Valar care enough to send the very best."

"Argh," was her response, and she rolled her eyes as she stepped from behind Legolas. "What's going on? Why am I here? Why is Legolas here and not in the Halls of Mandy? Weird, naming it after a Barry Manilow song."

Skip sighed. "Good thing you're not as blonde as you pretend to be, Slayer," he told her severely. "Chaos would have reigned eons ago."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she grumbled. "So, give. What's the what? Where are we? Are we dead?"

"Pretty much, yes," Skip replied. "This is The Vestibule." Buffy could almost **hear** Legolas' eyebrow lift. "Most people—and elves—when they die, get sent directly on to their final destinations. But there are certain of you—beings of great light or darkness—who get the special business. They are given… opportunities, choices they can make that will effect not only their eternity, but everyone else's. Both of you are to have these same choices put to you."

"Was Angel one of these?" Buffy asked in a whisper, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist, and Legolas turned his head sharply to look at her.

"Don't be jealous, boy. The vampire was a Champion. It's a logical question to ask." Skip told the elf kindly before turning to Buffy. "Yes, he was."

"Boy?" Legolas asked, nose lifting a fraction into the air.

Skip grinned. "Compared to me, you **are** a boy," he said. "Do you know what a kalpa is?" Legolas shook his head 'no'. "It's a Hindu thing. A kalpa is 4,320,000 years old, and I," he continued proudly, "am almost four kalpa old."

Even ancient Celeborn would have to blink at that, so Legolas felt no shame when he realized he was gaping. "My apologies," he said at last.

Skip nodded briskly and turned back to Buffy. "Yes, Angel came here. His choice… ah, looks like the man himself is here to tell you about it."

Her eyes bugged out, and she spun once more to find yet another person had appeared in their vicinity. Angel stood there, still dressed in "King of Pain" mode—head-to-toe black, knee-length leather coat, hair tousled in that way Spike had always dearly loved to mock.

"Buffy," he said, and held out his hand to her. She took a few halting steps forward and placed her hand in his, gasping to feel it was warm, not cool. He nodded at her expression. "Yes, I'm human again."

"What's going on?" she demanded, her voice low. "I'm all confused, and worried, and I don't like it."

Angel took her other hand as well, and tugged her closer to him until he could press her palms flat against his chest. There was a noise from behind her that Buffy could have sworn was a growl, if elves were indeed capable of that sound. "When I died, I was given a boon."

"A boon?" _Funny word_, she thought dazedly. This was uber-strange, and the way he was looking at her was making her nervous. 

Angel nodded. "I was able to ask one favour, and it would be granted to me. Anything I wanted, within reason." His dark eyes were glowing with a soft light, and Buffy realized that the demon she was used to seeing lurk in the recesses of him was gone—he was all Angel, with no Angelus at all. 

"What did you ask for?" she asked breathlessly, staring up at him in wonder. 

"You," he replied simply. "I asked to be able to be with you, forever." He looked down at her with a gentle smile, knowing she would be touched and delighted by his revelation.

Buffy surprised him a lot, then, when she pulled back and slapped him with a solid whump on his chest, ignoring his startled 'ouch!' of pain. "Back in the Paths of the Dead, you said that was it! That we'd never see each other again!" 

"They met on the Paths of the Dead?" Legolas inquired of Skip, who'd seated himself comfortably on a boulder and sat back to watch the festivities. 

"Yeah, while she was passed out for that day… it was a whole thing," Skip explained out of the corner of his mouth, not wanting to interrupt Buffy's momentum, as she seemed on quite a roll.

"You're mad at me because I'm not gone forever?" Angel demanded, disbelieving. He was watching her with a wounded expression and the slightest bit of a pout. Twenty years ago, both would have melted her swiftly, but now…

_I'm almost forty years old,_ she thought angrily. _I'm not going to let him manipulate me like he used to. _Fury filled her until she felt she would explode from it. "I'm mad because you lied to me, and what's this about making another decision that affects me?" She punctuated this question with another smack, this time to his shoulder.

"She is ever a violent woman," Legolas murmured fondly, folding his arms across his chest and surveying the two. Angel was holding up his hands in surrender and trying without success to apologize, but Buffy wasn't letting him get away with it.

"I'm sick of this, Angel!" she ranted, arms waving in agitation. "I'm sick of men thinking they know what's best for me!" Here she turned the force of her glare at Legolas, and he had the grace to look a little sheepish. "And don't think you're getting off lightly, either!" she yelled toward Skip, who flinched, and then upward where she imagined the Valar to be. "No more messing with Buffy's fate! This ends here!"

She pulled away from Angel and strode to an empty spot between two big stones. "I wanna know **all** the secrets concerning me, all of them. Or I swear to… you, I will never kill another bad buy again!"

Skip stared at her in disbelief and alarm. "You would stand by while Middle-Earth sinks into wrack and ruin?"

"C'mon, Buffy," Angel cajoled. "You know you couldn't do that."

But she just levelled a look upon them that was, to Legolas at least, hauntingly reminiscent of Haldir at his snootiest. She was serious. "She means it," he said softly. "And I do not blame her. She has been a pawn for far too long."

"Darn tootin'," she agreed, looking at each in turn, but her eyes lingered on him just a fraction longer. "Spill it, Skip."

The demon sighed. "Fine," he agreed sulkily, looking greatly put out. "Angel here has requested that you two be together forever. Your gift is death, as it always has been. But you can decide what form it will take."

"And that means what, exactly?"

"Did you know what, in the right hands, life is a currency?" Skip asked, tilting his head to the side. "You tried to buy Dawn's life with your own, but that didn't work. Wasn't the right situation, didn't have the proper authority."

"And are you the proper authority?" she drawled, not looking at all impressed with him.

 "As a matter of fact, I am." He smirked. "You can buy Legolas' life, if you want. But that will mean no more waking-from-death for you; if you take this choice, this will be the last death you will wake from." He paused. "In fact, you don't have to wake from it if you don't want to. You can just walk off with Angel here, if you want."

Buffy turned to face the former vampire, reading on his face all his anguish, his longing, his love. "And the alternative?" she asked quietly, flinching at the hurt that crossed Angel's features.

"The alternative is you wake up, Legolas doesn't, and you continue as you have for the past seventeen years."

Buffy stared down at her feet, thinking hard. The first choice meant leaving behind Legolas, her friends, and Dawn to be with Angel; the second meant deserting Angel to return to those back on Middle-Earth, and Legolas would still be dead. "I need to think about this," she said unsteadily. "And I need to talk to Skip about it. Alone."

Angel and Legolas walked away, going in different directions but still eying each other suspiciously as Buffy turned to Skip, her face anxious. "I don't know what to do," she said, her tone pleading. "What do I do?"

"I can't tell you, Buffy," Skip said sadly. "Wish I could."

"Isn't there some sort of middle ground?" Buffy asked. "Some way Legolas could live, and I could go back?"

Skip goggled at her. "You don't want to be with Angel?"

She studied her clasped hands, head bent in sorrow. "No," she whispered. "I still love him—I will always love him—but that's over. It was over when he left me, twenty years ago." She looked up, her eyes settling gently on Legolas. As if he felt her gaze on him, the elf looked up as well, and they merely stared at each other for a long moment. "So much has happened since then. I'm not who I used to be. I don't want to die anymore. "

"It doesn't help that Angel hasn't changed at all, either. Still trying to 'cute' his way out of trouble, still making my choices for me. He's always treated me more as a protégée than an equal, because of his age and experience. Walking around like some wise master, and I'm just an impressionable student of his" She snorted. "But you know what? Legolas is way older than him, and he's never made me feel stupid, or young, or foolish just because he's been around a few thousand years more."

She heaved a sigh. "I don't know if I can ever be with him—he's shown alarming tendencies to made decisions for me, just like Angel does, but…" she dragged her attention from Legolas back to Skip. "But I can't let it end here. I can't just walk away. Ten years ago, even one year ago—yeah, I would have taken my Gift and run with it. But not any more."

Buffy straightened her shoulders. "Here's the deal. Legolas gets to live, and so do I. I also get to choose when I die—meaning, I'll live as long as I damn well please, and not a moment less."

Skip looked doubtful. "The Valar don't like to make bargains," he began, but she placed her hands on her hips and glared at him.

"That's the deal," she repeated stubbornly. "I think I've done enough for them, I deserve this. Legolas comes back to life, and I live no matter my illness or injury until I decide otherwise. Tell the Valar to put that in their pipes and smoke it."

Skip looked toward Legolas, and red eyes met blue for a long moment before the demon shrugged in resignation. "Fine, fine, fine," he grumbled finally, tugging on his chin-ring in agitation. "But they're not happy."

"Cry me a river," she retorted, supremely unconcerned that she'd earned the displeasure of the gods. 

"No," Legolas interrupted, striding toward them. "You will not leave it like that, demon," he informed Skip. "You will not let her think she has succeeded in her demands, when she has not."

Buffy frowned. "What in the blue hell are you talking about?" she demanded of Skip, who was studying a boulder in the distance with rather more care than really was warranted. 

"Kalpas be damned," Legolas said, lip curling in disgust. "You are a coward." He turned to Buffy. "He has not told you of my boon, Dagnir."

"Dagnir?" Angel snorted from a bit away, bitterness plain on his face. It was clear he knew how this was going to end. They ignored him. 

"What is your boon, Legolas?" she asked softly.

He reached out then, and caressed her cheek with his hand before lightly grasping the wrist-thick braid that hung over her shoulder. "I asked only that you be given free will, _tithen maethonamin_, instead of settling for what others wish for you. That is why the Valar agreed to your bargain, because I wished for you to have whatever you wanted."

She was struck speechless, and stared up into Legolas' face, helpless to tear her eyes from him. "You gave up your boon so I could make my own choices? Are you **insane**?"

Legolas laughed. "It has been said so in the past," he admitted, and tugged on her braid. "But I consider it a sacrifice well-spent. There are no words to express my sorrow for hurting you, Buffy." Blue, blue eyes glowed at her, warm and soft with devotion. "I can only plead fear and stupidity on my part."

She gazed at him for long seconds more before turning to Skip once more. "So?" she demanded abruptly, tapping her foot impatiently. "You gonna send us back, or what?"

"I thought you'd want to say goodbye to Angel," the demon replied stiffly.

She turned to look at Angel, studied the familiar slouch of his shoulders, the line of his profile. "No," she replied softly. "We've already said goodbye." The ache at the sight of him was back, but much dulled. It felt more like a fading bruise than the gaping wound it had been for decades, and Buffy knew she truly was getting over him.

Legolas, however… the pain, confusion, and anger she felt in regard to him was still fresh, but still there was an undercurrent of excitement threaded throughout it all. "I can't wait to see what's gonna happen," she murmured, and then there was a flash of light, and she fell unconscious once more. 

_tithen maethonamin_ = my tiny warrior


	14. Chapter 24

The Gift of Death, Part 24  
  
"I. can't. lift her!" groaned a voice close to Buffy's head as her  
limp body was grasped round the waist and tugged upward. "She. won't.  
let go. of him!"  
  
Now that consciousness had returned to her, her senses were following.  
First, of course, was sound; then smell: the stench of blood and sweat  
hovered around the periphery of her mind, while Legolas' own  
particular scent captured the majority of her attention. Feeling  
returned to her then, and she realized that beneath her cheek pressed  
to him, his chest neither vibrated from his heartbeat, nor rose and  
fell with his breath. She began to get a little worried that perhaps  
Skip had fibbed to her.  
  
"Even in death, she is ever stubborn." The voice continued, and she  
was released to slump back on top of Legolas. It was Aragorn, she  
realized, and he sounded more amused than upset. Hmph, she said to  
herself, thinking he could be a little less chipper in light of the  
fact that her no-longer-dead body was pinning Legolas' still-dead one  
to the ground.  
  
A little further away she could hear muffled sobbing that sounded  
suspiciously dwarven, and she thought her heart might break at Gimli's  
grief. Concentrating hard, she willed strength back into her limbs,  
then forced her arms to release Legolas. Pushing up slowly, she sat  
back on her heels and stared down at him. He looked like he could be  
asleep, except his eyes were closed. And, of course, the lack of  
breathing thing.  
  
"Buffy?" Aragorn asked, touching her lightly on the shoulder. Even so,  
she flinched away from him, eyes still locked on Legolas. What was  
wrong? He was supposed to be alive, both she and he had used their  
boons to make sure they both lived.  
  
"He's not supposed to be dead," she told him dully, and Gimli sobbed  
louder. She looked up to see not only he and Aragorn, but a crowd of  
others standing around her, pity plain on their faces. She turned her  
gaze once more to the elf. "Please, Legolas, don't be dead." Feeling  
wane the little strength she'd gathered to herself, Buffy placed her  
head on his chest once more.  
  
Long moments passed, and she held him close, waiting patiently for  
something, anything to indicate that he lived, but nothing happened.  
One by one the crowd dispersed until there was only the core group:  
Aragorn, Gimli, Haldir, Boromir. Aragorn sat on the dusty, bloody  
ground beside her and wrapped his arm around her waist, knowing that  
even if she gave no indication, his warmth comforted her.  
  
Finally the sun began to go down, and Aragorn spoke. "My sister," he  
began, "There are things I must do. We are winning, but still there  
are more to fight, and many are injured that need my help, but I will  
not leave you. You must come away from here; we will bring Legolas,  
and once in the city you can sit with him again."  
  
Buffy fastened bleary eyes on him, her gaze moving over each of them  
in turn. Gimli sat on Legolas' other side, clasping the elf's hand in  
his own stubby one; he looked dreadful. Haldir's face was impassive,  
but his eyes never wavered from her. Boromir seemed not only  
exhausted, but somehow guilty as well. a vague sense of suspicion  
crept into her mind, pushing back her numbness and the blind-barbaric  
fury that threatened to overtake her at Skip's betrayal of his promise  
to them.  
  
"Where's Dawn?" she asked sharply, sitting up once more and leaning  
against Aragorn. For the first time since reawakening, she looked at  
her surroundings and realized they were no longer in the middle of the  
plains-cum-battlefield where they'd died-sometime after that they'd  
been moved to this sheltered niche in the great wall of Minas Tirith.  
In the distance a ring of soldiers cordoned of the area from the  
remaining enemy.  
  
Boromir knelt by her, his face pleading for understanding and mercy.  
"She rode out with Gandalf; I thought she would be safe there. But she  
leapt from Shadowfax almost the first chance she had, and. I am not  
sure what happened," he said in a rush. "But I was in the city when  
she was carried back-"  
  
"Carried back?" Buffy demanded, voice rising. Aragorn squeezed his arm  
tightly around her waist and she eeped at the pressure.  
  
"She said that she, Merry, and Eowyn had killed the Lord of the  
Nazgûl," Boromir told them, and smiled with pride. "Not with a full  
company of men could you defeat that monster, but my Dawn, a Hobbit,  
and a shield-maid of Rohan did the deed." He sobered then. "Of course,  
they are quite ill with some dark sickness."  
  
"They are why I must return soon, Dagnir," Aragorn said quietly. "They  
will need my healing, and whatever the twins can do for them."  
  
Torn between her love for her sister and the raging ache in her chest  
for Legolas, she looked down again at him; he was as unmoving as ever.  
"Yes," she agreed, her voice sounding hollow to her own ears, hollow  
and empty like her heart. "We'll bring him to the healers as well."  
  
"Buffy," Aragorn began as he stood and stretched a hand to help her  
up, "My soul grieves as well for his passing, but Legolas is dead. You  
must accept this." Boromir and Gimli watched her, concern plain on  
their faces.  
  
"You don't understand," she said tiredly, ignoring his hand. "When I  
was dead this time, I had another chat with the Valar. They were  
supposed to let Legolas live. They said I could have whatever I  
wanted, and I wanted his life. They said he would live!" Her volume  
rose until she was screaming up at the sky. "You bastards! You said he  
would live!" Buffy collapsed back onto his chest then. "You said he  
would live," she mumbled against the growing wet patch on his tunic  
from her tears.  
  
An arm wrapped around her waist again; this time, it was Haldir's.  
"Dagnir, please," he entreated, his deep voice soothing. "We must go  
now. Cling to me if you must cling to someone, but we must go." He  
tugged on her, trying to peel her away from Legolas. "The soldiers  
cannot continue to shield us much longer."  
  
But Buffy had locked her arms around Legolas again, even as her head  
came up so she could stare at his face. "Legolas?" she asked, the  
words trembling on the air, quivering from the force of her hope.  
She'd felt a heartbeat-just a single one, but it had been there.  
Crouching beside him, she lay her palms flat on his chest and began to  
perform CPR, or as close to it as she could remember after so long.  
  
"What is she doing?" Gimli muttered to Boromir, who shrugged.  
  
"I do not know, but it appears to be working," the Gondorian replied,  
for Legolas drew a great, shuddering breath, eyes flying open to stare  
blindly at the darkening sky above.  
  
Sitting back, Buffy stared at him until he blinked and turned his head  
feebly toward her. "Ever are you beating on me, Dagnir," Legolas  
complained, and tried to sit up. "Do not make me wish you had chosen  
Angel instead of me." He frowned when he fell backwards, too weak to  
manage it, and frowned deeper when no fewer than four sets of arms  
came forward to support him.  
  
Buffy's were not amoung them, however. "You didn't seem to mind my  
beatings when I was directing them toward Angel." As the others  
watched in fascination, she crossed her arms over her chest. "And who  
says I chose you, anyway, Mr. Smug Elf?" She tilted her nose up  
haughtily, leaving all but one of them thinking she was spending  
entirely too much time with Haldir.  
  
Legolas brushed their hands from his shoulders and sat up again, this  
time with success. "Did you not choose me over the vampire, then?" he  
asked, brow raised elegantly. "For it seems to me that you are here  
with me now, instead of in that strange place with him."  
  
She waved her hand airily, brushing away his reasoning. "Means  
nothing," she informed him, standing. "Totally irrelevant. Just  
because I didn't want you to die is no indication of anything-"  
  
"Indeed not," he agreed, but his eyes were twinkling. He even allowed  
Gimli to assist him to his feet. "But the broken sobbing all over me.  
ah, that is most definitely a hint that you might perhaps be more  
devoted to me than you wish to admit." She opened her mouth to deny  
it, but he stepped to her and took her hand, pressing it to the tear-  
dampened patch over his heart. "Why will you insist on pretending you  
do not love me any longer?" he asked quietly. "I know you do, as I  
love you. Will you not leave off with the deceit?"  
  
"I'm scared, Legolas," she whispered. "You hurt me a lot when you  
shunned me, and so much has changed so quickly. I need to think about  
things more, before I can commit to anything."  
  
"You do not need to commit to anything but loving me, for I will not  
press you to anything you do not wish," he replied, and his eyes were  
so blue and intent as they gazed into hers that she could not keep  
from raising up on her toes to press a kiss to his lips.  
  
"Aragorn!" called a voice from beyond their guard, and all turned to see Eomer gesturing wildly. "You are needed! This battle is not yet over!"  
  
"Are you feeling strong enough to fight?" Aragorn asked Legolas with concern, handing his bow, quiver, and daggers back to their owner.  
  
The elf stumbled a little over his own feet. "Not by myself, just yet," he admitted reluctantly. "Perhaps Dagnir and Gimli would be so kind to flank me?"  
  
"It had been my plan even if you had not asked," the dwarf announced grimly. "The last time you left my side, you ended up dead. It shall not happen again."  
  
"You'll be fine in a few minutes," Buffy assured Legolas. "The first time I died I was shaky, too. It gets easier."  
  
And with that, they waded back into the battle. The enemy's numbers were severely depleted, and as the sun lowered in the sky and Legolas' strength returned to him, it became clear that the day would belong to Gondor.  
  
Buffy had just decapitated an Uruk-Hai with a serious halitosis issue when she heard a thin, reedy voice calling her name from very far away.  
  
"Dagnir! Boromir!"  
  
She shielded her eyes against the sunset's glare and peered up, and up, and up. Standing on the wall at the highest level of Minas Tirith stood a Hobbit, waving his arms in agitation.  
  
"Is that Pippin?" Buffy asked Legolas, who spared a scant glance over his shoulder  
  
"No, that is Gimli," he replied, and carved open an orc's chest with a double slash of his blades.  
  
She rolled her eyes. "Look up," she instructed, pointing.  
  
He obeyed, and then frowned. "Yes, that is Pippin. He calls for Boromir as well." They exchanged a look; if both she and Boromir were needed, it could mean only one thing.  
  
"Dawn," Buffy whispered, then yelled, "Dawn?" as a question up at Pippin. His little form immediately began hopping up and down excitedly.  
  
At Buffy's shout, Boromir whipped around from where he was impaling a Wild- man, his face filled with alarm. "What about Dawn?"  
  
"Something's wrong," she replied harshly, and began to run toward the gate, pausing when Legolas and Gimli began to follow. "You two stay here, Aragorn needs you." She reached up and kissed the elf hard on the mouth. "Be careful, we don't have any boons left."  
  
He nodded, his blue eyes glimmering as they stared into hers, and he brushed the back of his fingers over her cheek before spinning around and flinging himself back into the fray, Gimli charging gleefully after with axe upraised.  
  
Buffy and Boromir ran toward the demolished gate, and she became aware of how tired he was as he began to swiftly flag. "How long have you been fighting?" she asked him. "Have you eaten at all?"  
  
"All day," he gasped. "I fear there is not much more left in me to give. And no, there has been no time to eat."  
  
She dug a cake of lembas from a pocket and stuffed it into his mouth. "Chew, and swallow," she ordered him. "If you collapse that's one more thing I have to worry about."  
  
He grinned around the lembas and it wasn't long before the elven waybread did its job and his speed picked up a little. Once they'd entered the city it became clear that all was in chaos, and peering up they saw that the highest level of the city was wreathed in smoke and flame.  
  
"What the hell is going on up there?" Buffy demanded, grabbing the arm of a soldier who leant against the wall, pressing a bloodied wad of cloth against his head wound. His eyes were frightened and very white in his dirty, soot-streaked face.  
  
"I do not know!" the soldier exclaimed. "Some are saying the Steward has gone mad, and Gandalf is set to slay him-"  
  
Boromir took off at a run. Releasing the soldier, Buffy pelted after him. Halfway through the city they met Pippin, who was nearly hysterical as he ran down to meet them. She snatched him up and settled him on her, piggy- back, as they continued through the gates.  
  
"Your father has gone mad!" Pippin declared. "He thinks to burn Faramir and Dawn on a pyre!"  
  
"But they are not dead," Boromir ground out.  
  
"Did I not say he was mad?" Pippin shrilled. "He has soaked them and himself in oil, and waves about a torch! It is but Gandalf's skill with words that has prevented him from yet setting them all alight."  
  
They passed through the last gate, and immediately were assailed with the acrid gusts of smoke pouring from a small building at the base of the great white tower. Its door was flung open, and Gandalf's familiar figure stood in the threshold. Buffy and Boromir pushed past the wizard and entered the building.  
  
Denethor glanced at the newcomers with wild eyes as he brandished a torch, pitch dripping from it with each of his erratic gestures. Behind him, side- by-side on a slab of stone, were the motionless forms of Dawn and Faramir. Their skin and clothing glistened with what Buffy recognized by smell as the oil used in lamps.  
  
"Father!" Boromir shouted. "What folly has come upon you?"  
  
"My son, my eldest!" Denethor cried. "Ah, my heart breaks to see you, alive and yet dead to me!" The torchlight reflected eerily in his eyes, and Buffy suppressed a shudder even as tears began to course down Boromir's face. "One son dead, one nearly in death's grip, and my daughter." He reached a hand out to Dawn, caressing her cheek gently. "Beautiful, beloved daughter. they will not wake again. Should we not go to death together?"  
  
"He's really wigging me out now," Buffy muttered. "Beloved daughter, my ass. Gandalf, distract him so we can get them out of here."  
  
Gandalf stepped forward. "Come, Steward of Gondor, we are needed!" he said, lifting his arms welcomingly. "This can be put behind us." Denethor took a few steps toward the wizard, and Buffy and Boromir took the opportunity to dart behind him and grab their respective siblings. The stench from the lamp oil was very strong on them, and set all four to coughing.  
  
"So!" Denethor cried in triumph when he saw the limp bodies of Faramir and Dawn whisked from the smoky building. "Even in this am I thwarted!"  
  
"Surely you realize it could not be permitted?" Gandalf asked, sounding very old and weary.  
  
"Permitted!" Denethor shrieked. "I am the Steward of Gondor! Lord of Minas Tirith, the shining white city! There are none to say me nay in all this land!"  
  
"There is one, Father," Boromir reminded him, turning from where he lay his brother on the ground. Pippin jumped forward to replace him in tending to Faramir, smoothing rumpled hair back from the damp, smoky brow. "He is Aragorn, true and rightful king, and he shall come to claim his throne. You must give up this fever in your brain, for it is futile." He took a hopeful step forward. "Put down the torch, Father," he entreated. "Put it down, and help me see to Faramir, for he shall be healed."  
  
"Yes," Denethor whispered, and for a brief, shining moment Buffy thought everything would be okay. But then he leapt backward into the midst of the oil-soaked room and flung his arms wide. "Yes!" he cried. "All is futile, and the king is coming! No need is there for a Steward any longer. No Steward, no son, no legacy. Just this. Just a wreath of flame, and eternity."  
  
And with unnerving calm, he set his robes alight before removing a Palantir from his pocket and laying down on the slab previously occupied by his younger son and Dawn. Clasping it on his chest as the flames rose to lick at his body, he closed his eyes peacefully.  
  
Buffy left her ministrations of Dawn and Faramir to help Gandalf restrain Boromir from running to his father. "You can't do anything now!" she told him, yanking him back and out of the building. Gandalf slammed the door shut, his aged face lined with sorrow, and Boromir slumped to the ground, weeping.  
  
Buffy felt her own eyes prickle with tears and fell to her knees beside him, wrapping her arms around him. "I'm sorry, Boromir," she murmured, wincing as he clasped her tightly and sobbed into her hair. "I'm so sorry." 


	15. Chapter 25

The Gift of Death, Part 25

_One battle ends, another begins,_ Buffy thought as she made her tired way from the ruined gates of Minas Tirith to the plains that stretched to the river. In the weak light of the torches stuck at intervals into the bloody ground, one crew searched the hip-deep drifts of bodies for survivors, or the corpses of their allies; another was piling dead orcs and Wild-men up for burning. Already the stench of scorched flesh was thick over the battlefield, and Buffy was glad it was nighttime and too dark for her to see the extent of the carnage.

It didn't take her long to reach the tent erected for the Fellowship's use. One of the Rangers had told her back in the city that Aragorn was refusing to step inside the walls of Minas Tirith while he was yet uncrowned, but Dawn and the others suffering from the mysterious shadow sickness were worsening, and one of the healers had stated that 'the hands of a king are the hands of a healer'. And so, she trudged her way through the dead and dying to persuade Aragorn to enter the city and save her sister's life.

It didn't end up being as hard as she had thought. Once she'd stepped inside the tent, she'd been swept into the fierce grip of Legolas, then tugged from his arms by Gimli, passed to Aragorn, who was pried away from her by Haldir, and finally even the aloof Eomer embraced her before Legolas claimed her once more.

"So, I guess that means you're happy to see me?" she asked them from the circle of his arms, enjoying the triumph shining on their faces. 

"My heart rejoices to know we have not lost but a few of our number, Dagnir," Aragorn replied gravely. "Rohan has suffered deeply this day."

"Yeah, I heard about Theoden," Buffy said, offering a sad smile to Eomer, who stared down at his feet and blinked rapidly. "But Eowyn should be fine." She slid her gaze to Aragorn. "If I can get a king to come heal her, that is."

Both men blinked in shock. "Eowyn lives?" Eomer whispered, uncaring now that tears filled his eyes. "I had heard she was struck down, and Meriadoc with her."

"And Dawn too," Buffy said. "It took all three of them to kill the Black Captain, but they did it." She paused a moment. "Of course, they're all as sick as Faramir because of it. They need you, Aragorn."

"Then they shall have me," he declared with a grim smile. "None shall perish if I may stop it." And he followed her into the city, pulling his hood up so none might recognize him as Isildur's heir. 

Buffy was immensely grateful for Legolas' arm around her waist, supporting her as they went. Usually she was pretty perky after waking from her latest death, but the emotional upheaval of the day had worn her down quickly. 

"Soon you shall rest," Legolas whispered into her ear. 

"I need a bath," she muttered in disgust at her own ripe aroma before glancing up at him. "You smell just as amazing as always, though. How do you **do** that?"

He just smiled at her. "I am not as… amazing as I usually am," he demurred. "Death will do that to an elf. Perhaps we can bathe together." 

Suddenly her fatigue was a distant memory as naughty ideas swiftly filled her head. "Sounds like a plan," she said faintly, concentrating on placing one unsteady foot ahead of the other as his laughter echoed around them.

There was some confusion in the houses of healing over the matter of finding athelas, or kingsfoil as the herb was sometimes known. Once some was procured, however, Aragorn crushed it between his hands and sprinkled it into boiling water. The sickly smell of the ill and dying that filled the room departed instantly, and the air almost sparkled with clarity.

Aragorn dipped a cloth into the bowl of sweet-smelling fluid that Boromir held at his brother's side, and bathed the younger man's face gently. Almost instantly colour returned to Faramir's face, and his eyes opened. "You have called me, my king?"

"Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!" Aragorn told him. "Awake, and be ready for when I return."

Faramir promised he would, and admonished Boromir to go to Dawn. "I am in danger no longer, brother," he said. "Your place is now by her side."

Reluctantly, Boromir released his hand and made his way across the room to join Buffy and Legolas by the bed where Dawn rested. Her long limbs seemed very young and gangly against the white sheets. Some unknown struggle was being fought behind her eyelids, and he found himself reaching for Buffy's hand, squeezing tightly in shared anxiety as another bowl of steaming water and more athelas were brought to Aragorn.

"Join us, _Minuial_, in the realm of the living," he murmured to her, running the cloth over her face and throat before moving to her injured arm. She began to glow then, a faint tinge of green that suffused her entirely and made her limp body twitch just once before falling still again. It was over in a moment, though, and she slowly opened her eyes as if the lids weighed a thousand pounds each.

"Buffy," she whispered so faintly only her sister's Slayerly hearing allowed her to catch the word. "Boromir." Each came up on a side of the bed and took one of her hands. "Please don't yell at me."

Buffy smiled through the tears that broke through her stony façade. "Not now, at least," she said. "I'll yell at you later."

"I shall not yell at you," Boromir told her, and she rolled her head on the pillow to gaze at him, eyes alight with love, "for I am more proud than words can express." He had spoken to Gandalf, who told him how fiercely Dawn had fought, how many orc she had taken down. And Merry, before lapsing into unconsciousness, had informed them all that it was Dawn who had defeated the Nazgûl Lord's demonic beast. Boromir lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it fervently. "If I did not love you before, I would be helpless before you now."

Aragorn took his leave of them then, moving on to where Eowyn was being hovered over by her brother. Buffy decided to leave Dawn and Boromir to their romantic moment, and threaded her fingers into Legolas as they joined Aragorn by Eowyn's side.

"It has never been me that she loved," Aragorn said in a low voice, and Buffy glanced sharply at him. So he knew about Eowyn's crush, did he? "In a trying time, she loved a hero, and a king." He glanced up at Buffy. "But I am a Man as well, and loved by one who knows me as such." He turned sad eyes to Eowyn, then leaned forward and kissed her forehead. "Eomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!"

She stirred then, but did not open her eyes. "I must go to Merry," Aragorn told Eomer, who hovered anxiously on the other side of the bed. "Continue to call to her." The Rohirrim nodded and sat, taking up his sister's hand in his own.

Buffy and Legolas followed along behind Aragorn, and it wasn't long before Merry was sitting up in bed, demanding food and his pipe while Pippin cried tears of joy that his cousin would live. Laughing, they left the Hobbits to their reunion and left the houses of healing. 

Outside a good-sized crowd of people had gathered to wait for Aragorn. Some were begging him to come heal them or their loved ones; others were just eager for a glimpse of their new king. 

"He's not doing anything until he eats something," Buffy informed them firmly, for she had observed how her friend was visibly drooping with fatigue. Pippin had told her earlier where to find Boromir's house, and she practically dragged Aragorn to it and heaped a plate with leftovers from one of the Hobbit's cooking binges. 

Joining him, Legolas ate sparingly but Buffy like Aragorn was ravenous and the two of them demolished dish after dish until all was gone and nothing but crumbs were left and they had to lean back in their chairs to accommodate their bulging bellies.

"Ah," Aragorn sighed complacently. "Just a few more moments until I go again."

Buffy frowned at that. "I wish you would rest a while first," she said, and crossed her arms over her chest to indicate that she was serious.

Legolas smiled. "You will have to talk quickly, Strider," he teased. "For I have seen that expression often, and it bodes ill for you."

Aragorn smiled a little at his friends. "Dagnir, glad I am that you worry for my welfare, but there are wounded who need tending." 

"Then the rest of us will tend them," she replied stubbornly. "The twins are already at it, I'm sure, and--"

"There are many more with shadow sickness that need the hands of a king," he told her gravely. "Would that I could share that duty with a prince," he said, grinning at Legolas, "but alas, only Eomer and I qualify, and I fear he will not leave his sister until she wakes." A tinge of bitterness tainted his dirty features then, but whether at having to take up Eomer's ignored duties or regret at Theoden's demise the others could not be sure.

"I would not blame him for that," Legolas said softly. "For he has lost his uncle this day; his fear is deep, and it is not long since his cousin Theodred has died, either." 

"Will you at least wash up a little, and lay down for a half-hour?" Buffy pressed. 

"Yes," Aragorn agreed, slumping in defeat.

"Smart move!" she chirped, and ushered him into a bedroom to rest while she put on water to boil. When she returned, it was to find Legolas cleaning up after their meal. "A guy who does dishes," she murmured, and slid her arms around his waist from behind. "Don't I have all the luck?"

He flicked a glance at her over his shoulder, causing his hair to cascade over her face, and she inhaled deeply of his divine scent. "Aragorn is not the only one who will bathe this eve," he informed her. "I have put on another cauldron of water."

Buffy hid her smile against his back. "You say that like it's a warning."

He turned in her arms and put his own around her. "It is," he said, and nibbled at her lips. "I give you fair warning now; tonight I will strip your clothes from your fair body and lather the soap over your breasts until they gleam like pink pearls."

Heat zinged through her at his words, and her chest tightened with the now-familiar twinge of lust. "Oh?" she asked breathlessly. "And then what?"

Legolas trailed his mouth in tiny kisses over her cheek to her ear. "Then I will explore the treasure between your legs with my fingers and tongue," he whispered, his hot breath teasing the strands of honey-brown hair that escaped her braid. "I will taste you, and then I will fill you with my flesh."

"Sounds good," Buffy gasped, her fingers clutching his shoulders to keep from dropping to the floor, as her knees had turned to pudding. "But can't I be an active participant in this whole thing?"

"Most certainly," he replied, and took her earlobe between his teeth briefly before kissing down the side of her neck to where it joined her shoulder, and pushed aside the collar of her tunic to place a love-bite in the hollow of her clavicle. "What will you do to me?"

Buffy had to work hard to make her muzzy brain think. "I would… touch your skin, all of it," she began, and when he hummed encouragingly, grew a little bolder. "I will slide my mouth over you, and know the feel of you on my tongue." Legolas shuddered against her, just once. "I will take you inside me, and wrap my arms and legs so tightly around you'll think you can't breathe." 

He exhaled then, a tiny 'ah' that told her how deeply she was affecting him, and slid his hands down her back to clasp her buttocks, pulling her tightly against him so she could feel his arousal. "And then?"

Buffy allowed her pelvis to rock gently against him. "And then I'll flip you over and ride you," she murmured into his ear, trailing her lips over the outside edge up to the point and flicking her tongue against it, then smiling as he jerked in surprise. "I'll ride you, and pull your hands up to squeeze my breasts. I'll reach down and pinch your nipples while I clench myself around you—"

"The water has been boiling for a while now," Aragorn said mildly as he entered the kitchen, and smirked at them as they sprang away from each other, breathing hard. 

"Yeah," Buffy gasped. "On it. Just about to bring it to you."

His grin only grew wider. "I doubt it not." And he hefted the pot of water by its handle and carried it out of the room. She and Legolas stood on opposite sides of the room, staring at each other and panting as the sounds of splashing could be heard from the bedroom.

"I should… find Elrohir and Elladan," Legolas said at last. "To tell them to make ready for Aragorn and a long night of healing."

"Yeah," Buffy agreed. "I need to check on Dawn one last time, and see that Boromir has eaten and is going to sleep at some point."

They each turned and fled in opposite directions, knowing that if they did not, they'd never make it out of the house again that night.

Buffy fled toward the houses of healing, enjoying the cool night air on her flushed cheeks. Desire thrummed through her, and the anticipation of the lovemaking to come made her almost jittery as she banged open the door and jogged in. 

"Hey, Dawn, Boromir," she greeted them, plopping down at the foot of the bed. "Feeling better?"

"Tons," Dawn replied weakly. She was sitting up and propped against about a dozen pillows, and Boromir sat beside her with his arm draped protectively over her shoulders. She peered at her sister shrewdly. "Making with the elf-smoochies again?" she asked. 

Buffy blinked. "How did you know?"

"Your eyes are shining, your mouth is swollen, and you bounced in here like Tigger on speed," Dawn retorted. "It's fairly evident." She tilted her head to the side consideringly. "Question is, which elf were you smooching?"

"I think it rather obvious that her heart—and her smoochies—belong only to Legolas now, sweet," Boromir admonished teasingly.

Buffy stared at him. "You're picking up on our lingo," she said in amazement.

"It's actually pretty creepy, isn't it?" Dawn asked, and then yawned hugely. "God, I'm tired."

"We shall leave you to sleep, then." Boromir stood and kissed her lingeringly before turning to gaze down at his sleeping brother. "I will return early tomorrow. If Faramir wakes in the night, you will comfort him?"

"You know it," Dawn assured him, and snuggled down into the blankets. She was asleep almost instantly.

Merry too was dead to the world, so Buffy left the houses of healing with Boromir by her side. "We're staying at your place, I hope that's ok," she said.

"There is no need to share that humble place, Dagnir," he told her with a faint smile. "Your place is in the palace with all other honoured guests." His smile turned bitter. "Now that Denethor is not here to decree banishment, it falls to me to decide who stays where."

"Boromir," Buffy began, but he interrupted.

"I do not wish to speak of him yet," he said softly before coming to a halt and turning to face her. The street around them was utterly silent, and though smoke still floated in wisps around them, the air had cleared for the most part and stars sparkled far overhead. The moon was but half-full, and its dim light cast harsh shadows on Boromir's face, making him seem old and weary. "Much have I learned this day," he continued. "I have heard a tale that pleases me little, of Legolas treating you poorly."

Buffy frowned. "Haldir's got a big mouth."

"It was not Haldir, but Gimli," Boromir corrected. "He worries much about both of you."

"Why did he tell you about it?"

Boromir slid a glance her way and resumed walking. "I believe he feels that, as your future brother, I am the closest thing to a male relative you have in this world, and as such, your head of family and protector." Buffy opened her mouth to protest with fury, but he held up a hand. "I know, I know. Do not begin a tirade; I am too exhausted to endure it. I only ask because of my love for you, as my sister."

She exhaled sharply, her anger gone in the face of his concern. "What do you want to know?"

"You and the elf seemed… comfortable this day. Are matters mended, then?" 

Buffy stared out over the wall, able to make out the dark shapes of people walking in the battlefield below as work continued. "I think so," she said at last. "I hope so. Haven't really had time to sit down and think the past few days, it's been crazy, but…" She grinned suddenly, thinking of bath-time. "I think things are mended, yeah."

He placed a hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "Then I am glad, Dagnir." They had reached his house now; Legolas' trim figure could be seen in silhouette against the candlelight within as he moved from room to room. Sensing Buffy's return, he went still and faced the door as they entered, and bestowed a lovely smile upon them.

"Elladan and Elrohir came for Aragorn," he informed them. "I have made them promise not to allow him to work all night; they will tie him to a bed and force him to rest if necessary."

"Kinky," Buffy quipped, and Legolas smirked at her as he held out his hand in greeting to Boromir.

There was just the slightest moment's hesitation before the Man accepted Legolas' hand, but all three were aware of it. "I will sleep now," Boromir announced, then mentioned, "I am a very sound sleeper, and my chamber is upstairs, in the farthest corner of the house. So if… certain noises were made in the bedroom downstairs, I would not hear them." And with that he stalked from the room, leaving Buffy and her elf standing there gaping after him.

"He is as subtle as an arrow through the neck, is he not?" Legolas muttered and busied himself by wiping up a few spilled droplets of water. So intent on his tidying was he that he didn't notice until too late that Buffy launched herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and legs around his waist, until it was far, far too late.

Not that he would have wanted to evade her, anyway.

_minuial_ = dawn


	16. Chapter 26

Author's Note: If you're confused as to the 'sudden' state of Buffy and Legolas being married, never fear. An NC-17 interlude explaining the whole thing is forthcoming (if you'll pardon the pun). 

The Gift of Death, Chapter 26

Aragorn spent much of the next day closeted with the twins, Gandalf, Eomer, and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth deciding what to do next. Gimli spent much of it telling the Hobbits of their trip along the Paths of the Dead and taking of the Corsair fleet. Boromir spent the day fussing over Dawn and Faramir, and Buffy and Legolas spent it in bed together, much to the amusement of all of the above.

When they finally emerged from their room, Buffy was blushing like the bride she was and Legolas' usual mien of serenity was even more profound than usual. Of course, Gimli felt it was his duty as not only their friend but a dwarf to tease them unmercifully and see exactly what shade of 'tomato' he could make Dagnir turn.

The merriment was not destined to last, however. 

Pippin, with all the authority of a lord, ordered the dwarf and Buffy to set up tables in the garden behind Boromir's house while he drafted Legolas to assist with cooking. "Merry is feeling well enough to leave the houses of healing for a few hours, so we shall have a party!" the Hobbit announced, stirring a glutinous mass atop the fire with a spoon almost as tall as he was. 

Legolas was not a very able culinary assistant, however, and was soon excused from kitchen duty with orders to summon the other members of their group ("You're faking," accused Buffy, to which the elf merely smiled angelically on his way out the door).

Twilight was only just done when Legolas returned. Gandalf announced his appearance with a celebratory firework, and Merry weakly exclaimed "Huzzah!" from his perch in a nest of blankets in Aragorn's arms. Behind the wizard were Eomer, Elladan and Elrohir, and even Imrahil. Pippin ushered them all into seats and commanded them to eat, eat, eat.

Buffy knew she wasn't the smartest immortal in the place, nor the more observant, but even she picked up on the speculative glances the others were sending her way. "Ok, spill," she said when they were done eating, throwing down her fork and glaring at Aragorn. "What's with all the shifty looks?" He tried to protest but she narrowed her eyes at him dangerously.

"It would seem," he began slowly, "that we will have perhaps seven thousand with which to confront Sauron." His face was drawn and so, so tired looking Buffy felt like crying at the sight. "We are woefully outnumbered, and will need to use every weapon in our arsenal. You recognize that, do you not?" His eyed beseeched her to understand. "That I would not ask you this unless the need was desperate?"

She was beginning to get frightened, and with great relief felt Legolas' hand slip into her, squeezing comfortingly. "You're scaring me," she said, her voice low. "What is it you want to ask me? You know I'll do anything I can to win this war."

"Truly anything, Dagnir?" Gandalf spoke up now, his wizened face grave as he peered at her through the smoke of his pipe. "Are you prepared to sacrifice the one thing you leapt into a portal to save? The thing given to you by the Valar themselves?"

Horrible realization began to fill Buffy. "You don't mean…" she whispered, unable to say it.

Gandalf sighed. "Dagnir, I fear I will need to use Dawn for the battle that comes. It will require her blood, much more than the previous times."

"No." Buffy said it with great gentleness, but there was no doubt in anyone's mind that she meant it irrevocably. "Absolutely not. I'll die for this cause again— I already have twice just in the past year, and a few dozen times since coming to Middle-Earth in the first place. But I won't have you use Dawn like a— a tool, to wring her dry and discard her."

The wizard frowned deeply. "Do not mistake me for those who have wronged you, Elizabeth Summers," he exclaimed, and his voice held a note that was very disturbing. "Never have I done such, and I will not begin now. Protest as you may; this is Dawn's fate, as I saw when first we met in Fangorn. Hers to be a tool, and mine to be the hand that wields it. She is flesh, yes, but she is also the Key; an entity of immense power." He gazed pityingly at her. "Why else would the Valar have given her leave to join you in Arda?"

"No," she repeated, and Legolas pulled her into his embrace. "It's bad enough that I have to be the Chosen One, and have no control over my life. But not her, too!"

"We all have destinies, Dagnir," Aragorn told her quietly. "Think you I want the burden of rule upon my shoulders? That I would not prefer to live out my days as merely Strider, Ranger of the North? It is not my wish to usurp Boromir from the role he has been trained to take, nor to have all look to me for guidance and protection. Easily could it mean my death; I do not relish it, not at all. But it is my duty, and my birthright. I shall not shirk it."

Buffy gazed around the table at them all; Eomer and the twins met her eyes unblinkingly. They, too, had fates beyond their control, and would not support her. Looking at the Hobbits, she saw they flushed guiltily, but the sympathy on their faces told her that while they didn't like the idea, they agreed with Gandalf and Aragorn. In desperation, she turned to Legolas. 

He stared at her a long moment, an almost tangible current of emotion flowing between them, and then he turned to Gandalf. "I do not believe anyone's fate should be decided by another," he said at last, ignoring the expressions of shock and disbelief on the faces of the others. "Long have I been prince of Mirkwood, and long have there been expectations placed upon me that I would rather not. Why do you think I am here, instead of the forest of my homeland? For my heart longs to explore and seek, not to reside in a palace and rule. I did not have to be the elf that joined the Fellowship; Glorfindel would have done just as able a job."

Legolas rested his gaze on each of them in turn. "I have know some of you for centuries," he said, addressing Gandalf and the twins, "and some of you mere months." He smiled briefly at Aragorn, Gimli, and the Hobbits. "And Eomer, Imrahil, it is my honour to know you, though it be but weeks. I would give my life for all of you, or each in turn, if I could. But I will not offer the life of my new sister, for it is not my place."

His eyes hardened then; soft and dreamy no longer, they became hard and opaque as lapis. "I say we put the question to Dawn herself. If she agrees, then she shall join us at the Black Gates of Mordor. If she refuses, then you will have to step over the corpse of an Elf to do it."

"And a Dwarf," rumbled Gimli, scowling around the table at them.

Tears ran freely down Buffy's face and she reached out to Gimli, clasping his hand tightly in her own. "And a Slayer," she added thickly. 

Then Pippin made a sound of great agitation, and leapt to his feet. "I cannot do this!" he exclaimed, shame writ plain on his little face. "Merry and I, and Sam and Frodo, we all joined the Fellowship of free will. If we die, it's our own choice. But we can't make Dawn do anything she don't want to do!" And he bounded across the room to Buffy, submitting to her teary hug and standing proudly between her and Gimli. "You'll have to get past an Elf, a Dwarf, a Slayer, and a Hobbit if you want to take Dawn against her will!" he declared.

"Two Hobbits," corrected a frail voice, and all turned to see Merry struggle free of his blankets. "though I am not much of a barrier at the moment," he continued weakly. "Still, bringing me down will slow you a little." He walked slowly to Pippin's side and leaned heavily on Gimli's shoulder, allowing Buffy to kiss his cheek.

Gandalf and Aragorn exchanged glances, and then the Man sighed. "It will be as you have said," Aragorn conceded. "We will ask Dawn." And he stood.

"What, now?" Buffy demanded. "It's late! She's already asleep."

"This matter cannot wait for the morrow, Dagnir," Gandalf told her. "If she will not come, we must devise an alternative plan for our attack."

They made for the houses of healing, Buffy grumbling the entire way. Once inside, she stomped to the head of Dawn's bed and crossed her arms over her chest, glowering at Aragorn and Gandalf as they followed her in. 

"What is the meaning of such a scowl, Dagnir?" Boromir asked mildly from his position between Faramir and Dawn. His betrothed was fast asleep, and he'd been speaking quietly with his brother. She'd always been distant with Gandalf, but he'd thought her quite close to the future king and was quite surprised to see such ire directed Aragorn's way from the small woman. 

She smiled grimly, and it wasn't a nice smile. "I'll let Aragorn fill you in. I'm sure you'll just **love** what he has to say."

Boromir never thought he'd see the day when Aragorn son of Arathorn, also known as the mighty ranger Strider, future king of Gondor, would blush bright red and begin to stammer, but that is exactly what the Man did when Boromir turned an expectant face to his new liege. "Um, you see—" Aragorn began, only to stop a scant moment later. "It is like this," he tried again, but got no further. "It would seem that—"

"Oh, for chrissake," Buffy muttered, rolling her eyes.

"You are not helping!" Aragorn exclaimed, glaring at her. 

"Great, now you woke her up!" she retorted as Dawn stirred and opened her eyes.

"It is just as well, for this concerns her more than any other!" Aragorn snapped, and turned to smile pleasantly down at Dawn, who eyed him with great and increasing suspicion.

"Whaddya want?" she asked sleepily, pushing messy hair off her face. "You're creeping me out with that smile."

"You and your sister, ever suspicious," he grumbled, fiddling with the tongue of his leather belt. 

"With good reason!" Buffy snapped. "Will you just ask her, already?"

He opened his mouth to reply but Boromir raised a hand to silence them. "Enough," he commanded. "Dagnir, shut your lovely mouth a moment, will you, my sister? Aragorn, tell us what troubles you."

Aragorn took a deep breath. "Long have we debated it, and I need not tell you that your sister opposes us, but Gandalf and I, with Eomer and Imrahil, have decided that we will require you when we go to Mordor. Gandalf will need you as the Key if we are to defeat Sauron."

Boromir exhaled sharply, and his face flushed a deep brick-red under his tan, but he did not speak. Indeed, it looked as if he were fighting some extreme internal battle with himself, and his hands clenched and unclenched on his thighs before he blinked several times, seeming to come to some conclusion, and his colour returned to normal. 

"Honey, are you alright?" Dawn asked him, concerned. He only shook his head, refusing to speak. 

Buffy beamed proudly at her future brother-in-law. "He doesn't want to make decisions for you, Dawnie, but he really hates the idea." He smiled tightly back at her in recognition of her perception.

"Um… Aragorn, it sounds like a great time," Dawn began with not a little amount of sarcasm, "but I'm not exactly at my best, here." She indicated the fact that she was sitting in a hospital bed. "Kinda indisposed from the last battle. Broken arm, dislocated shoulder, weird shadow mojo."

"I know," he murmured, and sat on the edge of the bed beside her. "If we could wait until you were stronger, or there were another way, I would not hesitate to give the order. But I fear there is not." 

"When would we leave?" Dawn asked softly, her voice quavering a little as she reached out to clasp the hands of Buffy and Boromir. 

Aragorn did not answer; Gandalf shifted from where he leaned on his staff and said, "The day after tomorrow, at first light."

Boromir could not contain himself any longer. "You mean to drag her over war-torn lands when she is but days out of the grip of death?" he demanded, leaping to his feet. "Or is her health of no consequence? Will she not return from this mission?"

The glance exchanged by the wizard and Aragorn was his answer, and he again flushed darkly. "I will not answer for you," he told Dawn, his gentle tone at odds with the murderous expression on his face, "but I do not want you to do this."

Dawn turned to Buffy. "I already know how you feel," she said, and Buffy nodded firmly.

"Legolas, Gimli, Pippin, and Merry are all on your side too," she told Dawn. 

"As am I," mentioned a voice from behind Boromir, and he shifted aside to reveal Faramir propped on an elbow. He looked almost as angry as his brother. "It is irresponsible to ask this girl to give more, when she has almost forfeited her life already. She is but newly arrived in Middle-Earth! This battle is not her own."

"Sing it," Buffy agreed ominously. "I didn't have her come here so she could bleed all over the place and make little portals for you to suck energy from."

Aragorn stepped close to her, and was about to say something deeply stupid when Legolas' calm voice flowed through the room. "Might I suggest you step away from my wife, Aragorn? For I cannot say I like how you are looming over her in that manner."

"Wife?" Boromir asked, looking puzzled.

"Wife!" Dawn shrieked, and started bouncing up and down in the bed until she became dizzy and fell back against Boromir. "When did this happen?" she continued weakly. "And why wasn't I invited?"

Buffy and Legolas exchanged a glance. "It wasn't exactly a time you want to share with the family and friends," Buffy murmured. "Sort of an intensely private moment."

Dawn gave an 'ah' of understanding, and then leveled a very scary, very blue stare at Legolas. "I've heard you were a real dickhead to Buffy for a while," she said to him. He blinked, but did not reply. "She's apparently forgiven you; I'm reserving judgment. You'd better hope I never hear of it happening again, because elf or not, I will lay a smackdown on your ass like you've never dreamed." He blinked again.

"I believe that means she will cause you deep suffering," Boromir translated cheerfully. "And I second the sentiment."

"And I third it," Faramir piped up in back. "Think you an elf can resist an attack by three warriors of Gondor?"

"And a Ranger," Aragorn added almost reluctantly, shooting her a sulky look from the corner of his eye.

"And a wizard," Gandalf said with a gallant bow to Buffy.

She sighed, trying and failing to keep a smile off her lips. They were trying to apologize to her. "Oh, fine," she said ungraciously. "I don't hate you anymore. As long as you abide by Dawn's decision."

They all turned expectantly to Dawn then, and she squirmed uncomfortably. "I'll have to give it some thought," she said at last. 

"Everybody out now," Boromir said, and flapped his hands in a shooing motion to usher them outside.

"I would speak with Dawn a moment," Legolas protested gently. 

Several sets of eyes narrowed at this; but he'd locked eyes with Dawn once more and she must have seen something in his that satisfied her, because she nodded. "It's ok," she told Boromir and Buffy. "It won't take long."

"And I shall remain," Faramir said from his bed a few feet away.

The others clustered around the door, frowning suspiciously at Legolas as he whispered into Dawn's ear. It was fairly obvious that Faramir was striving mightily to overhear what they were saying, but from the cranky look on his face was having no success. 

"Faramir's a hoot with his overprotective brother act," Buffy muttered to Boromir. 

"He has ever wanted a sister," he replied just as low, smiling down at her. "As have I."

"Aw, shucks," Buffy said, grinning at him, and then was distracted by Dawn flinging her arms around Legolas' neck. The elf's eyes bugged out as his oxygen was cut off, and he patted Dawn's back in an effort to encourage her to release him. 

"What was that?" she asked curiously as Legolas joined her once more, rubbing his throat.

"It is for Dawn to share with you, if she wishes," he only said mysteriously, and she could get no more from him.


	17. Chapter 27

Author's Note: One of my reviewers complained that I misrepresented Boromir's and Faramir's mother as a shield-maiden of Rohan, when she was actually a princess of Dol Amroth. I have two things to say to that. 

1) I didn't have access to the books when I was writing that part, and was working solely from an outline of the book I found online, which didn't mention the particulars of Boromir's ancestry. Therefore and to wit: mea culpa, **mea** culpa, mea maxima culpa (if you imagine me saying this in Gregorian plainsong, it's ever so much more fun).

2) You're ok with the concept of a vampire slayer falling through a portal, her sister-the-blob-of-energy coming through another portal, Boromir living instead of croaking, and a number of other changes I made to the canon for my own nefarious purposes, and the one thing you object to is Boromir's genealogy? That's pretty funny. I like your priorities.

The Gift of Death, Chapter 27

There was much fluttering and muttering, giggling and wiggling the next day. _Too much_, thought Faramir, _for a place of healing,_ but he was becoming used to his brother's future wife and her sister. They had strange manner of speaking, and were oddly masculine in both dress and demeanor sometimes—even now, Dagnir sat sprawled in a chair on the far side of Dawn's bed with her ankle resting on the opposite knee, chattering happily with her sister, Boromir, and her new husband.

That was another odd thing—Dagnir's relationship with the elf. Boromir had shared a grim tale of misunderstanding, death, and boons from the Valar until Faramir's head quite swum in confusion. That she would forgive Legolas so quickly was testament either to her immense love for him, or else her immense foolhardiness. He hoped it was not the latter.

He still did not know what the elf had whispered into Dawn's ear the previous night. It was very frustrating, this being bedridden. He was a soldier, a warrior, a Man of action. He was bored, and his new scars itched ferociously. His only comfort was in knowing that he was healing quickly, for had not the healer allowed him to take a short walk around the garden yesterday afternoon? He was not as well as Merry, for while the Hobbit had been able to take each of the seven meals a day he desired, Faramir could only yet eat sparingly, but he fared better than Dawn, who was still too weak to leave her bed.

Or poor Eowyn… Faramir was most impressed with the shield-maid's resilience, and even more so with her brother's devotion. Rarely did Eomer leave her side, but tried ever to coax her to stay awake just a moment longer, or to drink just a sip more of the fortifying broth supplied by the gallon.

Faramir was aware of Eowyn's mortification when Aragorn and Gandalf returned for their answer; he felt her acute embarrassment at being privy to a private moment due to her stationing in the room, and smiled at her, looking to make her feel more at ease.

He did not expect, then, the flash of sudden attraction he felt at the sight of her eyes so large and sad against her white face, golden hair spilling over the pillows, and she offered him a wobbly smile of her own in gratitude for his kindness. "I thank you, my lord," she whispered. "It is not meet for me to know of these private things, but you must feel as awkward as I."

Faramir found himself scrambling for a reply. He settled for saying, "Um, yes," and then flinched at its inanity. She did not seem to find fault with it, however, for which he was profoundly pleased. "You are feeling better this day?" he queried.

And so started their conversation, held in hushed tones as the rest of the room with its raised voices and disappointed sighs receded into the background.

***

"You refuse our plea?" Gandalf said, his voice bleak as he met Dawn's gaze. Beside him, Aragorn rubbed his hand wearily over his face.

"Yes," she replied softly. "I'm sorry, but I'm just not well enough. There's more than just me to consider. My health is important to Buffy and Boromir and… others. It's just not a good idea."

"But—" Aragorn began, only to be cut off by his foster brother's hand on his arm.

"Leave off, Estel," Elrohir said quietly, staring at Dawn. "You ought not try to change her mind; it is decided."

"Very well." Gandalf's disappointment was palpable. "We should go, now, and prepare to depart on the morrow."

Buffy caught up with them as they cleared the doorway. "Um, I'm sorry," she said awkwardly. "I know you were really counting on her Key-ness helping out To be honest, I'm surprised she refused. I was positive she would insist on going."

"It matters not, Dagnir," Gandalf replied tiredly. "We will just have to find another way." He turned and made his way down the street, a solitary figure all in white, very upright despite his aged appearance. 

Aragorn was about to follow him when Buffy tugged at his sleeve. "Are we okay?" she asked the Man, eyes huge as she looked up at him.

He sighed. "Of course, Buffy," he said, one of his rare instances of him using her actual name. "Just because we shared harsh words does not mean our friendship is severed."

"Oh, good," she said in relief, and hugged him fiercely. "I love you, you big jerk."

"Likewise, you… big jerk," Aragorn replied, grinning down at her even. The strange words felt odd in his mouth, but seemed to fit when speaking to her. "You are happy with Legolas?"

"That's the popular question around here lately," she said, fairly glowing at the thought of the elf. "Yeah, I am."  
  
"And he is aware of the beating to follow should he behave as he did after Helm's Deep?"

"Oh, yeah," Buffy replied with a laugh. "He's been threatened, like, twenty times. I think he's suitably frightened enough to be a model husband."

"Excellent," Aragorn said with a slow, dangerous smile before remembering something and sobering. "Have you spoken to Haldir recently?"

A pang of guilt shot through Buffy. "No," she said slowly. "Haven't really had the time… where is he, anyway?"

"He has been tending those of his elves injured in the battle, and doing what he can to help the Men as well." Aragorn slid a glance her way. "He knows of your bonding with Legolas, and is… unhappy… you did not see fit to inform him yourself."

"Oh, boy," Buffy muttered under her breath. Haldir 'unhappy' was not a pretty sight. Ok, it **was** a pretty sight, as he was a damned hot elf, but it was certainly an unpleasant experience. "I should go see him, shouldn't I?"

Aragorn nodded. "Yes, you should. And you should apologize sweetly, as well, for he has worried greatly about your pain only to learn you have wed he who caused it in the first place."

"Ooh," Buffy groaned. "You're giving me to big-brother lecture on how to treat people."

He only smiled. "It is nothing compared to what Haldir will say, I assure you."

And it was, too—Buffy sought and found Haldir in a tent healing the infected stump of a Rohirrim who'd lost a leg in the battle, and the cold look the elf sent her way sent actual chills over her flesh.

"Can we talk?" she asked timidly. He nodded curtly and rose from his patient,  washing his hands with typically brisk, efficient motions before following her outside and leading her to another tent. Inside were three cots and the detritus typical to three elves at war, as he was sharing it with Elrohir and Elladan. A snarled, broken bowstring lay discarded on the floor; there was a whetstone tossed haphazardly on the hastily straightened blankets of one of the cots; a small table held a packet of carefully wrapped lembas. 

Once inside, he turned to face her, arms crossed over his chest, and remained silent. Was he waiting for her to speak first?

"I don't like when you're mad at me," Buffy said pitifully, eyes huge and sad as she gazed up at him, but still he said nothing thing. "Haldir, please."

"What do you wish me to say, Dagnir?" he asked at last. "Would you have me tell you I understand what you have done? I do not. Would you have me approve of your binding with Legolas? I cannot. Would you have me give you my blessing? I will not."

"I love him," she whispered, hanging her head. 

"Love," he repeated with a snort. "Always have I admired the capacity you have for that emotion, Dagnir, but love is what has gotten you into every mess that has ever hurt you. You will forgive me if I do not believe it will be different this time?"

"It will be!" Buffy protested. He merely arched a dark-gold brow. "It will be," she repeated sullenly.

"And you have this on whose authority? Not the Valar's certainly."

"Things are different this time," she insisted. "This time there's nothing to keep us apart, like him being a vampire. We're both immortal."

"But he is an elf. You have heard yourself how his blood sings for the sea. Think you he will remain on Arda all his days? What will you do when it is time for him to leave for Valinor? Know you if you can join him there? Or will you have to remain? Will he go without you, or will he stay here, slowly wasting from the longing to join his kin in the Undying Lands? If you bear him a child, will it go with his father, or remain with his mother?" Haldir's rapid-fire questions were making Buffy's head swim. 

"And what of Thranduil? No matter that you are immortal, think you the King of Mirkwood will be pleased to have a human, and not even a human from our own world, to daughter? He has not the same lax attitudes as myself, Dagnir, and will not be won easily." He paused. "And yes, I mean that as a warning—he is a hard elf, as ancient and unmovable as that mountain in which he lives."

"Do you plan on making that forest your home, so far from Dawn? No? Where then shall you settle?" The look of bafflement on her face told him she hadn't thought of any of these things. He exhaled sharply. 

"I do not blame you for not knowing the answers to these questions, for they are not concerns common to your people, but Legolas—ah, him. Yes, him I blame fully. He knows well that these issues shall cause much pain and many tears for you both." Haldir stepped close to her and cupped her face, his thumb wiping away the lone tear that traveled down her cheek. "I would not have you hurt or cry more than you have already, Dagnir. It distresses me to see it." And he pulled her into his embrace, resting his cheek on her head .

"You must think I'm an idiot," she mumbled against his chest.

"Yes, but I am used to that sentiment," he replied, and smirked at her when she pulled away to glare at him.

"Why is it that every time we have one of these talks, I can't decide whether to kiss or kick you?"

"I suggest neither, my lady," Haldir drawled. "You are a married woman, so the first is improper; I too am a warrior, and would match your attack easily, so the second is unadvisable."

"You're such an idiot," Buffy sniffled, and hugged him again.

***

When Buffy returned, Dawn insisted she have a bath and get dressed in one of the gowns she'd gotten in Caras Galadhon. "I'm tired of looking all skeevy," she declared. So Boromir carried her into a small bathing chamber and Buffy helped her scrub until her whole body was bright pink with cleanliness.

"Can't tell you how happy I am you decided not to go," Buffy announced as she brushed Dawn's hair dry.

Dawn's gaze met Boromir's. "Yeah," she said at last. She smiled at Legolas. "My answer would have been a lot different if not for Elf-Boy."

Buffy arched a brow at her husband. "Oh? And why is that?" Dawn blushed then, and looked down at the coverlet; it was a very strange reaction for her of all people. "Boromir?" Buffy prompted. "I know you know what's going on."

Boromir looked to include his brother in the conversation, but Faramir was deeply involved in talking to Eowyn, so turned back to the others. He gave his betrothed a look of such melting sweetness that Buffy found tears coming to her eyes. "We are to be parents, according to Legolas," he said at last, his voice husky with emotion.

Her head whipped around to Legolas. "What? So soon? How can you tell?"

He smiled. "It is a combination of things, Dagnir," he replied. "Her scent has changed, and her fëa is altered as well. Any elf would tell you the same."

"So that's why Elrohir told Aragorn to lay off," Buffy murmured in comprehension, and Legolas nodded. "How far is she along?"

"Not more than a few days; less than a sen'night, I would say. But I am sure."

Buffy turned troubled eyes to her sister. "Fighting in that battle, and your injuries… they didn't do anything, did they?"

"You mean to hurt… it?" At Buffy's nod, Dawn shook her head. "I don't think so, but it's so soon. I just don't know."

Legolas placed the flat of his hand on her belly, barely touching. "There is no sign of illness there," he said after a silent moment. "I believe all is well, but you should have Elladan check, he is vastly more skilled than I."

"At this, perhaps," Buffy murmured for his ears only, and the tiny smile that quirked his lips was the only indication he'd heard. "Let's go take a walk," she said suddenly, standing and grabbing his hand.

"Subtle, Buf," Dawn snarked. "We don't suspect a thing, not us. Totally sure you're just going to walk, and not run back to the house for a booty call."

"Hey, we're newlyweds," Buffy replied perkily, unperturbed that her ruse had been seen through, and pulled Legolas from the room, her sister's and Boromir's laughter following them out. She led him to Boromir's house, as suspected, but instead of entering it she went to the largest tree in the garden and plopped down at the base of its trunk, drawing him down beside her.

"Outside?" he inquired, and reached for the hem of her tunic. "It bothers me not, but I would not think you unmindful of Pippin or Aragorn disturbing us—"

"I actually do want to just talk, honey," she interrupted, brushing his hands from her clothing, and he sobered.

"Your discussion with Haldir has given you much food for thought, then?" Legolas asked quietly, and she nodded.

"He tried to blame it all on you, but I've been around elves enough to know that I should have asked these questions before we joined, Legolas," Buffy said. "I was just so… happy."

He smiled sweetly at her, making her breath come faster as it always did at the sight. "That is my plea as well, for such an omission." Taking up her hand, he pressed his lips to her fingers in turn before laying a kiss in the palm. "I fear my eagerness to be one with you clouded my judgment. And much as it pains me to say it, Haldir is correct."

"He brought up three issues that are pretty important," Buffy told him, allowing her free hand to stroke the cornsilk of his hair, threading through the fine strands that ran like silk over her fingertips as she admired the play of sunlight over him. God, she loved him. "Your father… he's gonna be pretty pissed off that you married a human, isn't he?"

Legolas shifted to lay on his side, and placed his head in her lap. "My father is ever agitated over aught I do," he replied. "Though he loves me dearly, I am not the son he would wish. This no longer concerns me. He has another son to lead our people if I will not." 

Okay, then. One issue down, two more to go. "Are we… do you want to have children, Legolas?" she asked, suddenly a little shy.

He rolled onto his back and looked up at her. "Right now? You said you wanted to talk."

Buffy lightly smacked his shoulder. "Stupid elf," she admonished, and he grinned. "I mean, eventually."

"Perhaps in a century or two," he said comfortably. "Let us wait until the world settles down from this latest conflict."

"But you do want to?"

He nodded, taking her hand once more and pressing it to his cheek. "Eventually. I can think of naught better than to look at my child, and see your eyes."

"Aw," Buffy breathed, and bent to kiss him. His lips, as always, were soft and beckoned her to explore them more fully, but she steeled herself and merely dropped a quick smooch on them before straightening again. "That leads us to our next topic… Valinor."

"Valinor?" Legolas was surprised enough to sit up and face her. "What of it?"

"Well, are you going?"

"I… yes. Yes, I am. I know not when, but yes. I am going." Realization was dawning on his face. "Unless you cannot, and then I will stay here with you."

"But… what about the gulls?" she asked, her voice small. "You said you heard them in your dreams, that you would have no rest under any tree ever again."

"That is true," he admitted, pulling her to sit on his lap and winding his arms around her. "I will lie not, and say it will be a simple matter for me to endure. But more deeply would it wound me to part from you, Buffy. I would remain in Arda to the end of my days, to be with you and our children, and never see the shining shores of Valinor if that is what is required." 

Legolas lowered his head and sipped the tears from her cheeks. "Weep not, _tithen maethoramin_," he admonished gently. "I have what Haldir does not, and that is hope. I cannot think the Valar would keep you from their home, nor our children. If they would, surely there must be some way to convince them of your worthiness to make that journey and live your days in the Undying Lands."

He pressed her hands to his chest, where she could feel the steady, comforting beat of his heart. "Where there is love, there is hope; where there is love, there is strength. We shall endure, _herves-nîn_, no matter what sour Haldir might say."

Buffy tucked her head under his chin and snuggled closer. "I love you," she told him, and kissed the smooth skin of his throat. 

"And I you, Buffy. And I you."

_f__ëa_ = aura, soul, spirit

_herves-nîn_ = my wife

_tithen maethoramin_ = my tiny warrior


	18. Chapter 28

The Gift of Death, Chapter 28

Traveling toward Mordor, the first few days weren't so bad. Ithilien was beautiful, heavily wooded and very green. Buffy smiled to see the interest with which Legolas surveyed the area.

"This land reminds me much of my home," he told her happily. "But, no spiders. A marked improvement."

Boromir was not so thrilled, however. "I do not like leaving Dawn," he told Buffy. "Glad I am that Faramir and Merry remain behind to tend her." 

"She's pregnant, Boromir, not dying," Buffy reminded him, but he would not be swayed from his worry. "You're not going to be that way when we're expecting, are you?" she asked Legolas, 

"Probably," he replied, looking uncomfortable with the question. "When that time comes, in the far, very distant future. Many years from now."

"He seems alarmed at the idea of being a father," Haldir murmured, not bothering to hide his grin. 

"Well, I'm alarmed at the idea of being a mother," Buffy shot back. "I'm also alarmed at the idea of **you** being a father."

Haldir then alarmed **everyone** with his outburst of hearty laughter. "As that is a highly unlikely occurrence, Dagnir, there is no need to fear."

She frowned. "Whyzat, Hal?" she asked. "You're not gay… I'd know." She turned to Legolas. "Wouldn't I know?"

"What is 'gay', _herves-nîn_?"

"Likin' only the boys," she elaborated with a grin, and Aragorn flashed a smile of his own over his shoulder, obviously eavesdropping on their conversation.

"I am not gay, as you call it," Haldir replied with a sniff. "And do not call me Hal."

"I won't, if you tell me why you don't think you'll ever have kids." 

He sighed deeply, giving the impression that he was very beset upon indeed. "I am the Guardian of the Wood, Dagnir, and shall not be joining my kin in Valinor. Ever have I know it, and there are none who wish to share this fate with me."

"I think it more accurate, _mellon_, to say that it is you who do not wish to share this fate with others," Legolas said quietly. "For I know of several who would stay, or follow, whichever you desired."

"It matters not," Haldir said repressively, and steered his mount away toward Elladan and Elrohir.

"Now you have upset him," Gimli teased Buffy from his place behind Legolas. "Wondering aloud if he were gay… Elves do not appreciate such a question. Do Men take kindly to such an inquiry?" he asked Aragorn.

"Do not ask him, he was raised in Rivendell and is more elf than Man himself," Boromir called from where he was talking with Imrahil, shooting a saucy grin at the future king, who narrowed his eyes in response.

"Nay, Legolas, Men are no happier than elves to field such a question," Aragorn replied before playfully eyeing Gandalf. "How deal the Maia with matters such as this?"

The wizard just rolled his eyes and said a rude word under his breath before spurring Shadowfax to a trot, leaving them far behind in a matter of seconds.

"Dwarves are never asked the question," Gimli mentioned. "I do not know why that is." He seemed oblivious to the obvious reason; that is, because no one wanted to think about gay Dwarves.

"Yeeeah," Buffy said slowly, repressing a shudder. "And on that note." She turned to Aragorn. "I'm worried about some of the men, they seem to get more and more scared the farther north we get."

He nodded. "I have seen that too. Have you noticed the Nazgûl?" For the remaining of the nine kings of legend had been circling overhead for some hours now, never coming close enough for elven arrows to hit but still near enough to bring 'unhappy belly rumblins', as Buffy called them, to the stomachs of all assembled.

Late that day they reached the northern limits of Ithilien, and emerged from the trees to the desolate, wide-open space where the Wetwang met the Dead Marshes. "God, it stinks," Buffy complained, pinching her nose shut.

"The stench is the least of our problems," Legolas replied, sensitive nostrils quivering in disgust. "Look you yonder."

Obediently, she turned to see a goodly number of the soldiers having a very bad reaction to the swamp. Some were muttering to themselves, eyes darting in panic all around; others had wrapped their arms tightly around their waists and rocked from side to side. The most affected, however, simply dropped to their knees and wept. And far above, the Nazgûl swooped and swirled, the cawing shrieks of their devil-mounts echoing off the clouds.

"This will not do," Aragorn said with great sadness, and looked pensive. "I will send them south once more, to Cair Andros, where they might take back that island for Gondor." He considered a moment. "I will send Boromir to lead them."

Buffy knew he'd chosen Boromir because going to Cair Andros was safer; she'd have protested, except she kind of agreed. Boromir had more than only Faramir to think about now, more than just Dawn. Best to keep him in one piece, if possible. And so Boromir was sent off with these several hundred men, grumbling and glancing suspiciously at Buffy, who only smiled brightly and waved at him. 

The next day was spent in silence, as the growing gloom seemed to press ever closer the more they drew near to Mordor. Finally they reached the end of the Udun valley, and the Black Gates rose before them. With a last deep breath, the Captains of the army progressed, accompanied by heralds, flag-bearers, and trumpeters. The closer they came, the more happy Buffy was to feel Pippin's arms around her waist as he rode behind her. 

The heralds shouted over and over for Sauron to appear, but silence was their only reply. "Getting bored," Buffy mumbled, and peered skyward to see if she could spot any of the Nazgûl. She jolted in surprise, then, when a rumble of drums began from far behind the gates. No sooner had she gotten used to that sound when another joined it: a harsh, raucous blaring of horns that made her eardrums tingle in pain. With a crash, the door to the gate was flung wide.

"Who's tall, dark, and fugly?" she asked Aragorn, but he only shook his head absently, not taking his eyes from the black-clad figure as it came forward, spewing insults. Long moments were spent thus, in the staring contest to end all staring contests, and finally the dark ambassador broke the gaze. 

"I have things to show you," the Messenger sneered, recovering from his discomfit and reaching for a bundle held toward him by one of his guard. Slowly, dramatically, he held aloft each item as he unwrapped it. First was Sam Gamgee's little sword, then a small grey cloak one of them had received in Lórien. Lastly, and most worrying, was the mithril-coat that had saved Frodo's life in Moria. Behind Buffy, Pippin sobbed in anguish.

"Name the terms that Sauron would have," Gandalf demanded, his voice carrying clearly in the steamy, smoking air. Sauron was a greedy bugger, it would seem; he wanted to rule everything west of the Anduin, including Mirkwood (Legolas tensed at that) and receive tribute from every land between that Great River and the Misty Mountains (Eomer and Haldir tensed at that). 

It was patently ridiculous, and Gandalf lost no time in telling him so, but grabbed the cloak, mail, and sword and thrust them at Pippin. The halfling hugged them close, burying his face in them as he continued to weep. Furious, the Messenger seemed to undergo some sort of wrath-induced seizure before wheeling round and galloping back to the gate. Before he had even cleared it, however, the gates opened and a multitudinous army poured out. 

There was little time to prepare; Aragorn took one flank of their forces, and Gandalf the other. "Rohan and Dol Amroth with me!" cried the wizard, brandishing his staff aloft, while Aragorn called, "Gondor, to me!"

Buffy cast a last glance toward Aragorn, silently telling him to be careful even as the Dunedain and Haldir's elves gathered around her, for it had been decided that she would lead the frontal assault. She cast her gaze on each of her friends in turn.

"Be careful, and watch out for each other," she shouted to be heard above the din. "Hold tight, Gimli and Pippin. If you fall off the horses, you're screwed." Those two nodded their fervent agreement. There was scarcely a moment for her to mouth "I love you" to Legolas one last time before the orcs were upon them. 

Buffy flung herself into the fray. She had liked the performance she'd gotten from the big axe during the last battle, and so wielded it again. Pippin was simply too small to accomplish much, so she had to protect him as much as take down the enemy, but she found his presence comforting. And he was handy, too, because he kept shouting, "Watch out!" and "To the right, Dagnir!" just in time to prevent her from taking an arrow or sword-blow.

She fought her way right up to the very gates themselves, and could tell from the avid expression on Pippin's face that he wanted to take down the Messenger as much as she did. "Let's—" she began, eyes glinting with zeal, but before she could continue an extremely big hand reached out from the gate's door toward her. 

Buffy meant to maneuver out of the way, really she did, but one of the Nazgûl lurking overhead dipped perilously close just then and she was overcome with a wave of paralyzing fear and nausea. Only the sound of Pippin's frightened shouts calling for her to rally helped her retain consciousness. Unfortunately, merely being conscious wasn't going to help the situation, as she quickly learned when the huge hand was followed out of the gate by an equally immense body. "Hill-troll," she muttered in disgust.

"Dagnir," it addressed her in its growly rumble, thinking she'd greeted it. "Supposed to be dead." Its body odor alone was enough to knock a lesser person out (Pippin was listing seriously to starboard and looking almost as green as the troll's skin) but it was even uglier than it was smelly, with great tufts of reddish-black hair sprouting from its long, skinny ears and cavernous nostrils. 

 "I may be dead but I'm still pretty." She hacked at its wrist as it reached for her once more, but the nausea was really debilitating her, and she was dizzy besides, and where the hell was Legolas? "Which is more than I can say for you." 

Gimli cried out in pain not far away, and Buffy forced her eyes to focus. What she saw when the world stopped spinning didn't make her feel any better: rivulets of blood were streaming down Gimli's face and he was swinging his axe wildly in one hand while he used the other to press against the gash in his forehead. Before him on Arod, Legolas was doing his best to repel his own troll, but the creature's arms were so long that the short weapons were almost ineffective. 

Distracted by her concern for them, she didn't comprehend Pippin's scream of warning until it was too late and their troll had grabbed her round the middle, hefting her from the saddle so quickly that she dropped her axe. It landed on the troll's foot and he howled in pain so loudly she thought her eardrums would burst. The troll swung her around like a rag doll, making her dizzier and preventing her from getting a firm grip on its ears as she would have liked, so she could snap its neck. Then the troll slammed her against the gate and everything went dark for a moment.

Blinking to focus, she saw Pippin standing on their horse's back trying desperately to stab the troll. Buffy decided enough was enough and swung out with her legs as best she could, locking them around the Hobbit and lifting until she could grab him by the scruff of the neck.

"Aim for the eyes," she told him breathlessly, and thrust him toward the troll's hideous face, but it was prepared for such a tactic and kept moving its head and blinking. Pippin exhaled impatiently and with a vicious jab, jammed his sword right up the troll's nose. 

The troll's roars of rage stopped abruptly, and he went stock-still. Then, with a howl that made the very hills around them shake, he dropped Buffy, who dropped Pippin, and staggered back to slam against the gate, yanking desperately to remove the sword from where it was lodged into the cartilage shielding his brain.

Buffy grabbed three things in short order: her axe, Pippin, and their horse's reins. Then she clambered hastily back into the saddle and spared only one last glance to make sure the troll was, indeed, in the throes of death before wheeling around to help Legolas and Gimli. "Good work, Pippin!" she told him breathlessly.

"But I have lost my sword," he replied sadly, clutching her tightly around the middle in his fright as a Nazgûl swooped low over them. Buffy wasn't sure, but she thought that the thing it was riding on might have drooled down the back of her neck.

"We'll make do without it," she told him, hewing at the back of Legolas' troll. "My axe is getting dull," she complained.

"Severing vertebrae will do that to an axe," Gimli agreed, using his own more as a blunt force weapon than a chopping tool; after hours of battle, its edge was nearly gone. His head wound had slowed to a trickle and though his face was smeared with blood, the grin he sent her way was cheery enough to make her stop worrying about him. 

A scream split the air, thin and high, and sent tendrils of unease skidding down their spines like an icy finger. Buffy looked up to find no fewer than three Nazgûl darting directly toward them, the razor-sharp talons of their mounts extended as if to snatch them up bodily and carry them away.

Before the one pelting toward Buffy could grab her, however, she pulled herself to stand on her saddle and leapt up to grab around the creature's ankle with one hand while the other brought her axe over and over to slice and cut at its underbelly.

With a shrill caw the beast flapped its mighty wings and rose into the sky; its rider hung over the side to try and reach Buffy with his spiked mace. She jerked to the left, narrowly missing having her cranium perforated. _I'm now thirty feet in the air, and he's gonna hit me eventually,_ she thought miserably. Thinking fast, she looked down and saw she was almost directly overhead where Legolas and Gimli continued to battle their troll.

Just as the Nazgûl swung at her with enough force to knock her head clean off her shoulders, Buffy took a deep breath and released her hold on the winged one's leg. There was a moment of stillness, of weightlessness, as she fell and then with a thump she was where she'd expected: sitting squarely on the troll's shoulders.

It was, needless to say, quite shocked and so barely protested when she started slamming her axe into its face. It recovered quickly, however, and began to reach over its head at the hindrance seated atop it. "Go for the eyes!" she found herself yelling once more as she grabbed hold of a greasy clump of ear-hair to retain her perch. "Or the nose! Anything, just kill it!"

Legolas lunged forward then, and thrust his dagger deeply into the troll's eye; with a gruesome pop it deflated, spewing thick fluid in all directions. Bellowing in torment, the troll stopped trying to claw Buffy off its back and struck out blindly. 

Pippin gave a wordless sob of alarm; Buffy took that to mean the Nazgûl was making yet another pass toward her. This troll was sturdier than the other; Legolas had taken out its other eye as well but still it fought on. "My daggers are too short," he lamented, and began searching the ground for a discarded longsword.

"Take your time looking, honey," Buffy shouted with a trace of sarcasm. "I'll just hang on and— ow, dammit—get beat on, 'kay?"  She clung to its neck, still slapping at it with her dull axe, wondering if she should stop trying to keep from puking and just yack all over it. 

The decision was rendered pointless, however, when Legolas came up with a spear and threw it with breathtaking accuracy into the hollowed-out socket of the troll's eye. It arched its back in a paroxysm of agony, flinging Buffy off at last, before falling over like a felled tree.

"Timber," she shouted gleefully. Then she bent over and threw up. Gimli took the spear from Legolas and guarded her back while the elf placed himself and his daggers between his wife and the battling orcs surrounding them. Pippin tossed a flask of water over their heads to her when she was finished, and she was very glad to rinse her mouth. 

"Better now," she announced, and pilfered a sword from the corpse of a fallen Rohirrim. "We have to get back on our horses, or we're toast." Astride once more, Legolas suggested they make their way back to Aragorn. Slowly, inexorably, they pushed through the teeming masses, and as an unholy shriek heralded the attack of all eight Nazgûl, Buffy was very happy there was nothing left for her to upchuck. 

Stuck as they were in the midst of a melée, there was really nothing to be done, and she'd resigned herself to grabbing another Nazgûl ankle when another shriek was heard… and this one brought a sense of not despair, but hope.

"The Eagles are coming!" someone shouted, and the cry was taken up around the battlefield until it was on the lips of everyone. For far above, speeding toward them with incredible velocity, flew an absolute squadron of the biggest damned birds Buffy had ever seen. It didn't take long for the eagles to drive the Nazgûl away into the dark shadows of Mordor beyond the Black Gate, and as the skies emptied once more the men of Gondor, Rohan, and Dol Amroth took heart. Inspired, hopeful, they pressed forward against their enemy and for the first time since the battle had begun, the tide turned in their favour. 

Buffy, Legolas, Gimli, and Pippin spurred their horses into a canter; eager to reach Aragorn, and Legolas had just pointed to where the Man sat astride, his sword flashing silver and white in the gloom, when the ground beneath them gave a mighty heave. Pillars of smoke and shadow shot up into the sky, and the gates crumbled apart with a wrenching whine as metal was rent asunder. 

Pippin buried his face in Buffy's back. She wished there was a back she could bury her own face in, and thought whimpering might well be in order as well, but had to settle for staring wide-eyed at the spontaneous destruction around her. 

"The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his quest!" Gandalf cried above the din, and a shout of joy rose from the throats of those assembled. "The realm of Sauron is ended!"

Terrified by this sudden change in plans, the orc-army panicked and broke ranks. They began to flee, and utter confusion reigned. Buffy and the others arrived at Aragorn's side in time to see Gandalf climb onto one of the eagles and fly away. She climbed off the horse and lifted Pippin to stand beside her; Legolas and Gimli dismounted as well, and she kissed her husband lingeringly before turning to Aragorn and hugging him fiercely. 

"He did it," Aragorn said, eyes gleaming with triumph. "Frodo did it!"

"I doubted it not," said Legolas.

"Nor I," Pippin added, very pleased his kinsman was a hero and had saved them all.

"I doubted it plenty," Gimli said. "But I am glad I was wrong."

They all turned to Buffy, waiting for her input; but she was staring into the sky where Gandalf had disappeared into the dreary land of Mordor. She realized they were staring at her, and frowned.

"Do I have a really bad concussion, or was that huge bird really talking to Gandalf?"

_herves-nîn_ = my wife


	19. Chapter 29

Author's Note: one reviewer has expressed surprise that I would not only make Buffy speak 'Buffy' but that Tolkien's characters **don't**—that they're speaking 'Tolkien' instead of modern English. Apparently, this is a novel idea. To which I say, if I'm the first person to clue in that those characters would actually use the same language patterns that their creator gave them in the 'bible', then it's a sad, sad world.  

The Gift of Death, Chapter 29

The mood of the people of Minas Tirith was not light after the departure of the Host, as those going to battle Sauron were called. Citizens of the White City scurried about as if a shadow were upon them at all times, even as they rebuilt their walls and lives. With Denethor dead and Boromir off to war, rule of the city fell to Faramir and, to her utter shock, Dawn.

"You will be their Lady once you are wed to Boromir," Faramir explained to her the third time someone asked her for permission to do something. "It is not unusual to take up the reins of control before the marriage occurs, if there be need." They were sitting in the garden of the houses of healing with Eowyn and Merry, all four of them recuperating from their shadow sickness at differing paces. Faramir was nearly to full strength once more, and Dawn was rallying as well, but Eowyn was still wan and far too thin, her hair lying dull and lifeless on her narrowing shoulders.

"But… I have no idea what I'm doing!" she wailed, and burst into tears. It had not taken long for the hormone fairy to visit Dawn, and it had been followed on swift wings by its sister, the patron saint of morning-sickness, as well. Consequently, she was somewhat more erratic (and green) than usual. "What if I do something wr-wrong?"

He pulled her into a comforting embrace and rubbed his hand in soothing circles over her back while Merry held her hand and made sympathetic noises. "It will be of no consequence if you make an error, Dawn," he told her, looking over her head at Eowyn, pleading for help.

Eowyn smiled faintly and took one of Dawn's hands. "I will guide you, if you will let me," she said. "Ever have I been reared to rule, though now it seems unlikely that rearing will be put to use. But I will teach you what you need to know." For the first time since leaving her sickbed, the shield-maid's eyes held the faintest gleam of life.

Faramir was glad to see it. As the days passed and the four of them spent more time together, he had become both increasingly fond of and anxious about Eowyn. He was convinced the reason she healed so much more slowly was because she did not care if she lived or not. Indeed, sometimes she seemed almost saddened she had not perished upon the field. There were moments that such depths of sorrow and guilt could be read in her eyes that Faramir felt he could cry on her behalf. 

Ailing as she was, she looked much like a drowned rat with her sallow skin, lank hair, and increasingly bony frame. Why, then, did his chest ache in a suspiciously central region whenever he looked at her?_ It is foolishness_, he admonished himself, _and madness. She has lost her uncle, and her heart belongs to Aragorn, if Dawn tells me true. _ 

He sighed and glanced over at her again. However, it was not Eowyn who caught his eye, but Merry. The Hobbit was grinning broadly at him and Faramir got a very bad feeling in the pit of his stomach which only deepened when Merry opened his mouth.

"I say, Eowyn, weren't you saying before how you'd like to take a walk along the wall and look out at the river?" Eowyn frowned at Merry's sudden change of subject and he hastened to continue. "Because Faramir was just telling me earlier how he wished to do the same." As matchmaking techniques went, it was one of the more transparent ones, and Faramir sat on his hands to keep from burying his face in them. 

"Merry…" Dawn began, about to tell him to shut up and stop embarrassing her almost-brother-in-law, but a gentle hand on her arm halted her.

"He is right, I would like to see the river," Eowyn said quietly, and offered a smile to Faramir as she stood.

He fairly leapt to his feet, and took the hand she offered, tucking it snugly in the crook of his arm. He led her away, shortening his stride to match hers, and Dawn called after them.

"Hey, Faramir, see if you can piss her off a little. Her being so quiet and nice is starting to scare me… where's the woman who screamed her head off in Edoras because Aragorn wanted to take the Paths of the Dead?"

Eowyn ducked her head, a blush suffusing her pale cheeks. Faramir bit the inside of his cheek to keep a smile off his face, and led her away.

***

_3 weeks later_

Still with no word from the Host, morale in Minas Tirith had sunk to a new low. The four Shadow patients had begun taking long daily walks along with wall, staring outward for any hint of the return of their loved ones, and gradually were healing good as new. Dawn was eating enough for two and crying enough for seven, but at least she was just as likely to cry over good things as bad. 

"You look so pretty!" she bawled at Eowyn one morning when the shield-maiden appeared for breakfast wearing one of her old gowns, for she had finally put on enough weight to keep it from slipping off her shoulders. 

"Thank you, dear friend," Eowyn replied briskly. "Now, do stop blubbering lest you put Merry off his food." Along with a few pounds, it would seem Eowyn had also regained most of her former businesslike outlook on life, and would brook no silliness in her presence.

Fortunately, it was exactly what Dawn needed, and never failed to shut her up when she got started, to Faramir's great relief. He just was not equipped to deal with weepy, expectant females, and not for the first time wished he'd been able to join the Host on their journey to Mordor. Surely risking death was preferable to listening to Eowyn scare Dawn speechless with tales of bizarre things happening during pregnancy?

"—and her ankles swelled so large she could never again take a bath, for her feet would not stay underwater, but would fly upwards so suddenly her head would submerge. She almost drowned four times!"

Dawn gasped.

"—her stretch marks were so pronounced, 'twas like claw-marks across her belly. Her husband thought she'd been attacked by orcs!"

Dawn whimpered.

"—the child was a month early, and **still** more than a stone in weight! A miracle she wasn't split asunder, though it **was** over a month before she could sit upright again… her husband began chasing other women before the year was out."

Dawn moaned.

"Oh, really!" Merry snapped one early-spring day. 

"Indeed," Faramir agreed fervently, but his relief was to be short-lived.

"You said you would tell us the tale of the watery-mole child, and instead you blather on about these silly tales." For Merry had developed quite a morbid interest in Eowyn's grim accounts of childbirthing. His favourite was of the woman who had carried her babe for several years, and when she was finally delivered of it, found it was made not of flesh, but of stone! 

Faramir gripped fistfuls of his hair and groaned, wondering if he actually gave in to the urge and ripped it out, would it impress upon these three how deeply he did **not** want to speak of such things? Opening his eyes, he found them watching him with varying expressions. Dawn blinked rapidly, Merry merely looked impatient, and Eowyn was smiling at him.  

"Come, then, let us walk," she said, and held out her hand to him. Merry made as if to join them, but Dawn grabbed the Hobbit and held him tightly against her. 

"I'll tell you about the watery-mole," she told him, and he gave Faramir and Eowyn a last shrewd glance before settling into the half-circle of Dawn's arm for the tale. 

And so she did, and he was properly amazed and mystified by such an occurrence. He had scarcely finished his exclamations over it when everything seemed to… warp, somehow. The air thickened, and became hard to breathe; the light streaming around them took on a greyish tinge, and all sound ceased. Then the ground beneath them gave a mighty shudder, as if sighing in relief. For an endless, breathless moment Dawn and Merry stared at each other, and then turned as one toward the east. In the far, far distance a column of pure black streaked up over the mountains, and then as suddenly as it had begun, everything went back to normal. 

"What in the **blue hell** was that?" Dawn demanded. Merry was incapable of speech, however, and just motioned toward where Eowyn and Faramir had disappeared around the bend. They stood and dashed after their friends, coming to a screeching half (in Dawn's case literally, because Merry slammed into her back when she stopped so suddenly) at the sight that met them.

A fresh wind had come to stir the still air, and Eowyn's hair was blowing wildly about like a golden cloud. And in the middle of it, oblivious to everything else but each other, she was kissing Faramir like her life depended on it.

_Perhaps it did_, Dawn thought. Eowyn had been so despondent over Aragorn, over the futility of loving him, over her grief for Theoden's death, over her worry for Eomer and everyone else. Dawn hadn't been anywhere near as frightened by Eowyn's horror stories as she'd let on, but she knew they made her friend feel better, that they brought a sense of normalcy and mundanity back into a world gone mad, and so pretended to be properly horrified. 

Eowyn needed to be useful, needed to be needed. She'd always been valued for her practicality and sensible nature, but no one had really seen or understood her immense courage and boundless strength. No one, that is, except for Faramir. He'd seen it from the first, had never doubted Eowyn would rally from her despair, had patiently encouraged the woman until she had not only accepted that she was alive, but embraced it. It was natural for her to love Faramir. Probably inevitable. 

Dawn grinned, and hugged Merry to her side. "Couldn't happen to two nicer people," she whispered into his pointed ear. 

He beamed up at her, and patted her belly. "It already did." 

***

_2 weeks after that_

"I'm showing!" Dawn shrieked in delight as she and Eowyn ran around getting dressed, for the Host was finally returned from its siege of Mordor and camped but a few miles away from Minas Tirith, near Osgiliath. "Look!" And she pulled the front of her gown tight against her. "Boromir's gonna be so excited."

"That, my friend, is the result of too many good meals and not enough exercise," Eowyn told her with a grin, and ducked to avoid the pillow Dawn swung at her head. "Now stop mauling your gown, else you cause it to wrinkle."

"You're just jealous," Dawn teased, obediently releasing her gown and going to brush her hair before the mirror.

"I do not see how that is possible," Eowyn replied calmly as she fastened a chain of silver and amber around her slender white neck. "For within a year, it will be likely I find myself in the same condition."

Dawn spun to face her. "What? Faramir?"

Eowyn smiled, just a hint of her former shyness making an appearance, and nodded. "He has asked me to wed with him."

"Oh, yay!" Dawn exclaimed, hugging her friend tightly. "Faramir is adorable, and—ooh! We're gonna be sisters!"

"You do not mind having another?" Eowyn turned Dawn to face away and began lacing up the back of the brunette's gown. 

"It'll be great to have a second sister," Dawn assured her. "It's not like Buffy will spend a lot of time here once this is all over…" her words trailed off as she realized what she was saying, and her eyes met Eowyn's in the mirror. "She's not, is she? Where will she and Legolas go? Now that Aragorn's going to be king, where will Boromir and I go? What about you and Faramir? What's going to happen to all of us?"

"It is impossible to know, Dawn," Eowyn replied sadly, taking the other's hands and squeezing gently. "As it always is, in dark times."

"But these dark times come swiftly to a close," said a voice from the door, and the turned to see Boromir standing in the doorway, Faramir just behind and peering over his taller brother's shoulder. 

"Budge over, you great lump," Faramir said with mock-gruffness, pushing past Boromir to go to Eowyn. "How long do you think they shall stare at each other, dear one?" he asked her, taking her hand and lifting to his lips.

Eowyn did not answer, but surveyed the scene; her friend stood stock-still, blue eyes huge in her face as they roamed over the form of her betrothed, searching for any indication of injury. Dawn's hand had unconsciously gone to her belly, cupping the nonexistent mound there protectively.

As for Boromir—ah, the look on his face was extraordinary. He was weary, yes, and had a heavy growth of beard on his tanned face, but the bleakness that had been stamped upon his features for so long was gone. In its place resided love, satisfaction, pride, and oh, such hope. Such hope as Eowyn had never seen before, and as Boromir came forward and took Dawn in his arms, she felt release the final hold the Shadow had placed upon her, felt it slip away and fade into the ethers.

Faramir slid his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder as they watched the reunion of the two lovers. "I find that I no longer fear the morrow," he murmured into her ear. "For it seems very bright to me."

She turned to look at him, her eyes glowing, and kissed his cheek. "And to me, beloved." 


	20. Chapter 30

The Gift of Death, Chapter 30

Boromir had a bath, and Dawn accommodatingly scrubbed his back, nagging him to shave off his beard as she did. He might have been annoyed by her prattling had he not been so happy to be with her again. He was somewhat baffled by her behaviour—she seemed to cry much more than he had remembered. Surely he had not been away so long that he'd forgotten she was ever a weepy lass?

No, he recalled Faramir telling him that it was common for a breeding woman to collapse into a sodden mess over naught. Dawn had wept to see him again, had wept when he undressed and she saw his new scars—he thought them quite dashing, personally—had wept when he had removed his beard and stood before her, scrubbed and clean-shaven and combed. 

"Come, sweet, you must cease," he pleaded gently. "Do you wish your sister's first sight of you in many days to be of red eyes and swollen face?" He pulled her into the bathing room and pumped some cool water into a basic. "Here, splash your poor eyes; they look sore enough to make **me** cry."

He stood there so tall and broad, looking so manly and **not** about to weep, that Dawn couldn't keep from smiling. "I'm sorry," she sniffled, and dashed water over her face. It felt heavenly on her overheated face. "I just can't seem to help it."

He enfolded her in his arms and rested his cheek on her smooth hair. "Was it very hard, these past weeks without Buffy or me?" 

"Not really," Dawn replied, allowing him to lead her from the small chamber and out into the garden. She tilted back her head, marveling at the clear light streaming down over them. Ever since that weird earthquake, the air had taken on a different quality, as if it were cleaner somehow, moist and fresh. "I was worried about you all, of course, but you're all so good at the butt-kicking that I knew you'd be ok." She grinned at him. "I just missed you, something awful."

"And I you. Ever was I thinking of you and our babe." He placed a possessive hand on her belly. "How does it fare?"

"Seems pretty good," she replied, covering his hand with hers. "I'm eating more than Merry these days, which scares everyone, and there's the crying. Oh! And the puking. That's kind of a drag." Her grin turned wry. "But you gotta pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues."

Boromir blinked at her. "No, didn't catch any of that," he said finally.

Dawn rolled her eyes. "Some things are worth suffering for," she clarified, and he nodded in comprehension. 

"So they are," he agreed. "And speaking of suffering, there is the matter of a coronation to attend."

"Oh, man, do we have to?" Dawn knew there was a little bit of a whine to her voice, but couldn't help it. Standing around in the sun while people made speeches was not her idea of fun.

Boromir tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and led her out to the street. "Yes, we do."

"But you're not the Steward, Faramir is," she persisted as they passed through the fifth gate. "He's the one who has to welcome Aragorn to the city, and then Gandalf will crown him, and blah blah."

He shot her an amused glance and guided her around a steaming pile of horse apples. "Though my duty is no longer that of the Steward, still I must make an appearance, as must my betrothed," Boromir replied. "And he is Aragorn no longer, but Elessar."

Dawn frowned. "How many names is this guy going to have?" she demanded. "First he was Estel, then Strider, then Aragorn, and now Elessar. What's next, Frank?"

"King Frank." Boromir frowned. "That does not sound very regal. No, I do not like that at all. Elessar is vastly better." Dawn giggled.

They  walked in silence through three more gates, stopping before the ruined remains that the Witch-King had trashed. "Such fear, such despair, the last time we stood here together," Boromir said quietly. 

"And now, such joy," Faramir said behind them. He was resplendently dressed for his role as Steward, and didn't look too upset for a guy about to hand over the keys to the kingdom he'd always thought would be, if not his, then his brother's. Beside him, Eowyn was wearing a gown of deepest purple, and her hair shone brighter than the sun against it, falling to her hips, unbound and wavy.

"I'm nervous," Dawn confided in her as the brothers spoke about the ceremony. "What if I yack?"

"Do not be nervous," Eowyn admonished soothingly. "You will not…uh… yack. For you have learned well these weeks all I have taught you about being a lady, and look very well besides." She raked her critical gaze over Dawn, but could find nothing amiss in the other woman's grey-blue gown and the silver circlet binding her sleek brown hair. She reached out and gently pinched Dawn's pale cheeks, bringing some colour into them. "Now lift up your head in pride, for it is time to proceed."

She stepped back and took Faramir's arm, and the two of them swept out toward the assembled Host and people of Minas Tirith outside in the field, looking impossibly majestic. Boromir smiled at Dawn, proud to have such a beauty on his arm, and she found her courage buoyed by his satisfaction in her.

"Wait for me!" Merry cried, running up. "I am here!" He grabbed at Dawn's hand. "You are looking very queenly," he told her, and was rewarded with a brilliant, if wobbly, smile.

Lifting her chin, she strode between them as if she'd been born to rule. The aisle cleared through the crowd was long, and at the end stood Aragorn. _Or Elessar, whichever it was this week,_ Dawn thought grumpily. As they drew nearer, she began recognizing people. A flash of white and red drew her attention. It was Gimli—the red was his beard, of course, but the white was a vast bandage swathing his head. Dawn sucked in her breath in dismay, but Boromir patted her arm comfortingly and assured her the dwarf was fine.

But she wasn't really paying attention any longer, for standing behind Gimli was her sister and Legolas. Buffy waved enthusiastically, and Dawn forgot to be queenly for a moment, waving back until Boromir, grinning widely, grasped her arm and pulled it back down. "Calmly, sweet. Calmly."

Buffy was doing some sort of bizarre pantomime, pointing to her stomach and then jerking forward as if heaving. "Oh!" Dawn exclaimed. "She wants to know if I've got morning sickness." She nodded vigourously, and Buffy bit her lip in sympathy. Beside her, Legolas was grinning. 

"Can you not at least pretend that this is a solemn occasion?" Boromir asked wryly.

"Sorry," Dawn replied, chastened. They came to a halt. A few paces before them, Faramir removed a really old-looking crown from a box and began speaking. Dawn was sure it was all very inspirational, but it was high noon and her dress, though of very fine cloth, was starting to get pretty hot, and she had a persistent itch in the middle of her back as well. She tuned out and looked around.  There was Haldir, smirking like usual. She blew him a kiss, and grinned when he blinked in surprise. 

"Impressive, sweet," Boromir murmured in her ear. "It is not often you can surprise an elf."

"Especially that one," added Merry from the corner of his mouth. Dawn smiled serenely and wished she could reach that itch…

Faramir handed the crown to Elessar, but he gave it back, saying that the Ring-bearer should bring it to him. Dawn's wavering attention snapped back. "Frodo?" she whispered as a small figure, shoulders bowed as though under a great weight, came forward to take the crown. She blinked furiously to keep from crying yet again.

"Frodo," Merry whispered as well, and Dawn took one look at the tears that streamed down his face and felt her own control slip. Frodo carried the crown to Gandalf, and Elessar knelt before the wizard, head bowed in utter humility. To the right of them, Frodo rejoined two other small figures: Sam and Pippin. "Oh, they are all safe. I am glad," Merry said.

Once it was on Elessar's head, and he stood once more, a brightness appeared to suffuse him, as if there were a single spotlight upon him. He seemed taller, somehow, taller and stronger and handsomer and wiser. 

"Behold the King!" Faramir shouted, and Dawn jumped about seven feet when trumpets began blaring in celebration. "The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office," Faramir continued, bowing before Elessar, but his head flew up again when the new King spoke.

"That office is not ended, for I shall have need of such men as you and your brother." Elessar replied, and his smile encompassed both Faramir and Boromir alike. "Join me now, as I enter the White City for the first time as its ruler."

Then Faramir and Eowyn stepped to one side, and Boromir and Merry pulled Dawn to the other, and Elessar passed them flanked by Gandalf and Frodo to enter the city. Falling in behind, there was all of thirty seconds of dignified solemnity before Buffy's voice could be heard.

"Coming through, make way! Hey, shove over, Porky."

"Porky?" demanded Haldir in outrage, while Legolas laughed in the background. 

Then Buffy was hugging her, and Dawn was crying again, and everything was alright once more. "You didn't die again, did you?" Dawn asked with a trembling, soggy smile. 

Buffy pulled up short. "Hey!" she exclaimed. "You know, I didn't!" Turning to Legolas, she beamed up at him. "I didn't die this time!"

"Sometime to be proud of, certainly," he murmured before gracing his sister-in-law with a lovely smile. "You are well, _Minuial_?"

"Mostly," she replied, giving him a one-armed hug, reluctant to release her sister from the other. "You?"

"I too am fine." He certainly didn't look any the worse for wear, unlike poor Gimli. 

"What happened to you, Dwarf?" she demanded playfully. 

"Troll," he replied succinctly. "Bashed the nasal of my helm into me. Bled like a stuck pig," he announced with pride. "But in the end, triumph was ours!"

"Was whose, friend Gimli?" Legolas asked, his voice mellow. "From whose hand did the spear fly, that killed the troll?"

"Who distracted the troll by clinging to its ear-hair?" Buffy asked sourly. "You two have been arguing about this for a month now; can we just let it go?"

Both elf and dwarf gave her exaggerated bows of deference; she sniffed and linked her arm with Dawn's, and the two women departed while the others burst into laughter. 

"So, morning sickness, huh?"

"Yeah, it's pretty gruesome," Dawn admitted. "And the crying is getting on everyone's nerves, especially mine. But on the other hand, I'm totally out-eating Merry, and Eowyn loves having someone to fuss over." She grinned down at her sister. "How's newlywed life?"

"Groovy beyond my ability to describe," Buffy gushed, with the zeal of the faithful toward an agnostic. "I cannot **believe** you don't like elves."

***

Not long thereafter, there began a mad rush to prepare for the departure of several of their party, for not only did Haldir and his elven forces have to return to Lórien, but Eomer and Eowyn were needed back in Rohan. Dawn hugged her friend tightly, even though Eowyn would be returning within a few weeks, and even brushed a kiss over Haldir's cheek while he stood patiently and allowed it. 

Buffy, however, flung herself into the tall elf's arms and sobbed. "When will I see you again?" she demanded. "Soon?"

"If Celeborn and Galadriel allow it," he replied. His time was no longer his own, but belonged to his lord and lady once more. "If your desire for me bites too deeply," he continued smoothly, grinning when Legolas frowned at his choice of words, "you have but to come visit. Lothlórien is your home, and you are ever welcome in it." Then he gave Legolas a last fierce look of warning before swinging up onto his horse and kicking it into a trot. He did not look back.

Eowyn and Eomer, and the other of their men, mounted with the fluid grace of those born to the saddle, gave jaunty waves, and were soon naught but a blur in the distance. They would travel together with the elves until they were past the Druaden forest, and then Haldir would turn north while the Rohirrim continued their westerly course.

Life settled down again, just a little. Elessar began issuing all sorts of decrees, not the least of which was to make Boromir the Prince of Ithilien. 

Dawn almost had a heart attack when she heard. "I'm gonna be a **what**?"

"A princess," Boromir replied soothingly. 

"I don't think I want to be a princess," Dawn replied anxiously. "I don't know what to do. I was hopeless helping Faramir run Minas Tirith while you were gone—"

"Do not fret so, sweet. It will be… nice." He sobered. "But if you are truly opposed to it, I shall refuse the title, and we will stay here."

"Tis a lovely place," Gimli offered. "Legolas was quite enamoured of it."

The aforementioned elf flicked a considering gaze at his wife. "Shall we tell them now, _tithen maethoramin_? Perhaps it will ease her mind to know?"

"Might as well," Buffy replied with great cheer. "Dawn, Legolas and I have decided that we're going to live in Ithilien after all's said and done-- he wants to start some sort of elf commune there, since there's no spiders. And it's nice and close to Minas Tirith, so we'll be able to hang out with Aragorn, um, Elessar. And you, too… we thought you'd be staying here. But if you were going to be living in Ithilien too…"

"That's totally different!" Dawn exclaimed, and hugged her sister, then Legolas, and even Gimli (though no one was sure why) before planting a big kiss on Boromir's cheek. "We'll be neighbours!"

"Well, I don't know about neighbours, exactly," Buffy hedged. "It **is** a pretty big forest."

"And knowing Legolas, he'll want to live up a tree somewhere remote," Gimli added. 

"I am **not** living up a tree, buster," Buffy told her husband, eyeing him severely. "Had enough of that in Caras Galadhon."

"How go your plans for the wedding?" Legolas asked Dawn in an attempt to distract focus from him. It worked admirably, because Buffy and Dawn immediately began discussing the issue. Meanwhile, the males present rolled their eyes in the manner of all men when dealing with women and wedding plans.

"What have I done, to merit such a punishment?" Boromir hissed at the elf when Dawn requested he pay some attention, dammit. 

"Don't listen to them, Dawnie," Buffy sniffed. "I'm gonna give you a beautiful, fun wedding if I have to kill everyone in Middle-Earth to do it."

"Ever bloodthirsty," Legolas murmured, fingering her long braid and giving it a gentle tug.. "Let us hope it will not come to that. We have, after all, just risked life and limb to **save** everyone in Middle-Earth."

_Minuial_ = Dawn

_mellon_ = friend

_tithen maethoramin_ = my tiny warrior


	21. Chapter 31

Author's Note: This is the second to last chapter. I'm giving fair warning now: I want reviews! All of you who've been reading and not reviewing, for shame, you naughty minxs! Please, it won't take long, but please send in a review either now or when I post 32, the last one, with your opinion of this fic. It would mean so much to me.

[blinking huge, sad,  pitiful brown eyes]

Please?

The Gift of Death, Chapter 31

Eowyn returned as promised within a few weeks, and preparations for Dawn's wedding to Boromir progressed swiftly. Before they knew it, the day was upon them. 

"I can't wait for the guys to go non-verbal when they see you," Buffy chirped as she and Eowyn helped Dawn dress. 

"You really think they will?" she asked, gazing in the mirror at her reflection. "There's enough mithril on this thing to make Gimli elope with me."

The women paused a moment to think about the mental image that Dawn's words had created, and then began to laugh. "Have you got everything old, new, borrowed, and blue?" Buffy gasped.

"Well, the dress is blue, the circlet is borrowed—thanks, Eowyn—the baby is new, and as the Key, I'm pretty damned old. Is that good enough?"

"I think that'll do," Buffy agreed with a grin. "How's Junior holding up to the excitement?"

"Hasn't said anything, so I assume he's ok with it all," Dawn replied. "I, on the other hand, can't seem to stop peeing every five minutes. Really hoping I won't have to make a pit stop in the middle of the ceremony." She peered over at her sister. "Don't you think you should get dressed now, too?"

"Indeed, Dagnir," Eowyn agreed. She and Buffy had come to a sort of truce, now that Eowyn wasn't chasing Aragorn any more, and found they actually rather liked each other. "Unless you plan on attending as you are?"

Buffy looked down at her comfortable leggings and the tunic she'd appropriated from Legolas, which was miles too large for her. "It's comfy," she whined. 

"Up," Eowyn ordered. "If we must suffer, so must you." And in short order, she and Dawn had stripped Buffy down to her knickers. Dawn dropped the gown over her head and pushed her arms into the sleeves; Eowyn fastened the belt around her slim hips and adjusted the neckline. Feeling obligated to put up a show of resistance, Buffy fought them every step of the way,.

"There!" Dawn finally, panting and brushing back a loosened strand of hair. "Hey, aren't **I** supposed to be the nervous, reluctant one?"

Buffy glowered at her sister from under the curtain of hair that had come free from her braid during their struggles, and grunted.

"That shade of green looks very pretty with your hair, Dagnir," Eowyn ventured, ever the peacemaker, and began to comb said hair.

"Hngh."

"Again with the grunting," Dawn complained, hands on hips. "Buffy, what's really wrong?"

"It's just…" Buffy plopped down on the edge of the bed and stared at her hands, clenched in her lap. "You're getting married, and going to be a mother.. my little Dawnie…" A few tears rolled down her cheeks. "And I feel bad that Mom's not going to see it. And Spike too, and Giles and Willow and Xander. They would have wanted to be here for this."

Dawn's face crumpled then, and she fell to her knees to drop her head in Buffy's lap. Buffy leant over Dawn and gave into her own sobs. Eowyn hovered nearby for only a moment before she, too knelt and began to cry. 

"Theoden, my uncle… I avenged his death, but still he is gone!" she wept. "Glad I am to have Eomer, for I know I would not have survived without him, but oh, Theodred… so young he was, and bold…" Without breaking stride, Dawn and Buffy put their arms around her. 

It was this tangled knot of sodden women that Elessar discovered minutes later when he came to escort Dawn, as they had asked him to 'give her away'. It was an intriguing concept, one with which he was thoroughly unfamiliar, but they seemed to consider it an honour, and so he was duly honoured by their request.

When he opened the door, expecting three flushed and happy faces but finding three red and tear-streaked ones, his eyes widened and he slowly, carefully backed out of the room. What could have happened, to upset them all so? He was used to Dawn blubbering, as she'd been doing so for weeks now, but he'd never before seen either Dagnir nor Eowyn give into tears. It was… unnerving.

Elessar pushed open the door to the palace study, where the rest of the men were waiting for the ceremony to begin. Legolas, Gimli, all four Hobbits, Gandalf, and Faramir were ranged around the room, some sitting, some standing. Boromir, however, was pacing before the huge fireplace and seemed to be muttering to himself. 

"Elven marriage rites, why could it not be elven?" it sounded like to Elessar's sharp ears. "Then it would be just Dawn and I, no one to watch, nothing to go wrong…" Ah, the groom was anxious as well. Elessar wondered if perhaps the women upstairs were merely releasing their tension with tears, as women were sometimes wont to do, but then remembered how the durable Buffy and stoic Eowyn had clung to each other…

"There is a problem," he said from the doorway, and eight pairs of eyes flew to him. 

"The great hall has collapsed, and we must have the wedding in a room so small only ten may fit?" Boromir asked hopefully.

"Alas," Elessar replied with a kind smile. "Nothing so soothing to your nerves, Boromir. No, I fear that the women are… disquieted about something, and are crying quite fiercely."

"All of them?" Legolas asked in his typically unruffled way, standing.

Elessar nodded. "Not just Dagnir and Dawn, but Eowyn as well." This raised eyebrows around the room, and now Faramir was on his feet. 

"Come, brother," he said to Boromir, "let us go rescue our women from whatever demons haunt them this day."

And Elessar could not be sure, but he thought he heard Boromir say, "Would rather face a demon… yes, yes, a Balrog. Vastly preferable…" Elessar was not entirely sure he blamed him. 

The men (and elf) were all extremely pleased to learn that the women had recovered by the time they made their way up to the room where Elessar had left them. "Sometimes girls just need to have a good cry," Dawn assured Boromir as she shut the door on him. He nodded, but clearly had no idea what she was talking about, and was very relieved indeed to be shooed from the room. 

Elessar returned, and this time they were ready for him. Buffy and Eowyn preceded him and Dawn down to the great hall, and some lovely elven music was struck up as they entered, for the sons of Elrond had remained in Minas Tirith and Elrohir plucked with deft fingers at a lute while Elladan held a flute to his lips. The entire populace of the White City had tried to cram itself into the hall, and there was literally only standing room available. 

Buffy thought Boromir looked like he'd prefer to be back at Helm's Deep facing ten thousand orcs all by himself, if the panicked expression and nervous tugging at his collar were any indication, but then his gaze moved past her and Eowyn to Dawn, and all doubt vanished. His face became calm and sure, and a smile lifted his lips as his eyes locked on Dawn like they were the only people in the cavernous room. 

She felt tears threaten again, but happy ones this time. Nevertheless, she blinked until they receded, and searched for Legolas. He was toward the front, and watching her the same way Boromir was watching Dawn. The same way Faramir was watching Eowyn, in fact. _Love is in the air_, she thought, and smiled.

At the end of the hall, Buffy went left and Eowyn went right, joining their respective men, and Buffy leant against Legolas' side as he curled an arm around her and dropped a kiss on her hair. Elessar handed Dawn off to Boromir, who accepted her as if she were made of the finest, most delicate crystal, and both turned to face Gandalf.

"Dark times have we suffered of late," the wizard began. "But throughout all, a love has shone brightly, and dispelled the darkness with its purity. Each has risked death for the other; and with this risk, has purchased joy." He smiled down at them. "Does your kin approve of this match?"

"Yes," Buffy said, followed a moment later by Faramir's "Aye."

"Does your king approve of this match?" Gandalf asked.

"I do," Elessar said firmly. "They have the blessings of Gondor."

Legolas stepped forward. "And of the elves." Off to the side, Elladan and Elrohir nodded their agreement.

"And those of the dwarves," Gimli added. He'd allowed Legolas to braid his beard for the occasion, and looked almost alarmingly cheerful. 

"And of the Hobbits!" cried Merry. "Indeed!" agreed Pippin, Sam, and Frodo. 

"Glad I am to hear it, Mister Brandybuck," Gandalf chuckled when the laughter had receded. "And now we must hear from you, Dawn, and you, Boromir. What say you to this union?"

"I say that I was not worthy of you when you offered yourself to me, Dawn, and I doubt I ever will be, for I am naught but a rough soldier." One of her tears splashed onto his hand as it clasped hers, and he rubbed at it with his calloused thumb. "But I give you all that I am."

"What say you, Dawn, to this union?" Gandalf asked her. 

"I say that my only regret is that it couldn't have happened ten years ago," Dawn replied, eyes shining brightly as stars. "I've been waiting my whole life for you, Boromir." He smiled tenderly at her, and raised her hand to his lips.

Gandalf pulled a cord from his sleeve. "As your hearts are bound, so are your lives." And he wrapped it in an intricate knot around their clasped hands, entwining them so closely together they could not have pulled away if they had wanted.

Which, fortunately, they did not, for Boromir threaded his hand into the shining fall of Dawn's hair and pulled her close for a passionate kiss. It was only the noisy applause of all assembled that made them stop eventually. 

"Alas," Boromir whispered against her mouth, grinning.

"Not alas," Dawn contradicted. "The opposite of alas. Yay. Because if I don't get to a potty soon, there's gonna be trouble."

The twitching of Gandalf's lips indicated that Maia have excellent hearing, and so he hastened to announce that standing before them were Boromir and Dawn of Gondor, husband and wife. 

"Thank God," Dawn muttered, and began to walk very quickly down the aisle, pulling Boromir with her as she'd forgotten they were still tied together. "Oh, for…" she yanked on the cord but it would seem that Maia also had excellent knot-tying skills, because she only made it tighter. 

"Be calm, sweet," Boromir laughed, running lightly beside her as people began to flood the aisle, eager to offer congratulations. Light poured through the tall windows, falling in golden beams over them, and he thought he'd never seen anything so lovely as her face. "We will get there, together."

She stopped, and turned to him with a wide smile. "Yeah," she agreed, and slipped her free arm around him for a quick hug. "I like the sound of that. Together." Then her eyes widened. "Hope you like to be **really** close," she said, warningly, "because I don't think I can wait until we get this thing off." And she took off running.

***

Elessar's gift to them was a trip down the Anduin on the largest of the Corsair ships. Actually, they were accompanying Prince Imrahil and his forces back to Dol Amroth, but it was the closest a person could get to a honeymoon cruise in Middle-earth so Dawn wasn't about to complain. 

Since they were going to be sailing on the sea for a few days, the twins insisted on going as well, and if the twins were going then Legolas wanted to go, and if Legolas was going, of course Buffy was going too. Then Gimli expressed his reluctance to be left behind in Minas Tirith, Faramir and Eowyn declared they wanted to know if it would be worth their while to take one of these 'honeymoons' and shouldn't they experience it for themselves, and before she knew it the Hobbits were all saying they'd certainly like to see some gulls as well and Gandalf had begun humming sea chanties under his breath whilst packing suspiciously nautical-looking wizard robes. 

"Can't Elessar come too?" Dawn demanded acidly as they plodded up the gangplank. "How about Eomer? The Dunedain, perhaps? Can't we just bring **everyone**? I mean, as long as Boromir and I are going to have people all over the place, why not a few kings and a troupe of Rangers?"

"Oh, shut up," Buffy said, and threw a companionable arm around her sister's shoulder. "Could be worse, could have Spike here glaring at Boromir 24/7 for daring to touch his Nibblet."

Dawn rolled her eyes and planted herself at the end of the plank, flatly refusing to allow anyone else aboard. "Forget it, Dumbledore," she told the wizard. "Bad enough I'm going to have my sister with me on my honeymoon, and a bunch of elves, but there's no way the rest of you are coming along."

Gimli sulked; Faramir and Eowyn looked hurt. Gandalf frowned, sufficiently puzzled by the strange name she'd called him to rather forget to be offended, and the Hobbits all tried to pout so adorably she couldn't possibly deny them, but Dawn was made of sterner stuff. 

"I love you," she said, kissing their little faces. "Now get the hell off the gangplank and go eat elevenses."

After that it was, pardon the pun, smooth sailing. Buffy was careful to keep the elves away from the newlyweds, and Dawn was so happy her morning sickness was finally gone that she was in a superb mood. As for Boromir, he just lounged most of the day on the deck, became even more deeply tanned, and smiled a lot. 

The elves were having the times of their lives, and Buffy couldn't stop grinning at their antics, at how amazed and thrilled they were at practically everything. By the end of the second day, all three were scampering about the rigging like tall, gorgeous monkeys and saying things like, "Look yonder at the beautiful rock" and "Have you ever seen such a handsome gull?" with all seriousness.

"Elves in good moods are funny," Dawn whispered in Buffy's ear one late afternoon as twilight was falling over them. They were both peering up toward the crow's nest, where Legolas, Elladan, and Elrohir were crowded into the small space and staring out over the horizon before them. They were relaxed, had the loveliest creamy tans, and chatted happily in the musical Sindarin language.

"They deserve it," Buffy replied, waving in response to her husband's smile. "We all do."

They returned all too quickly, and Arwen showed up in the middle of July, the same day as Dawn's bump. "Look!" she exclaimed to the daughter of Elrond, pulling her gown tight across her middle to proudly display the small, firm mound beneath. Now in her second trimester, she was enjoying herself immensely as all morning sickness, weepiness, and panicked urges to pee had diminished entirely.

Arwen smiled. "Good health to you," she said, cuddling Elessar's arm to her. She hadn't let go of him since arriving. He didn't look as if he were going to release her any time soon either, to the delight of her grandparents, whom Buffy kept hugging as she'd missed her friends a lot. Elrond, however, walked around with a perpetual lemon-sucking expression on his handsome face and even his mischievous sons could not raise his spirits. 

Elessar and Arwen were wed two weeks later with as much pomp and circumstance as anyone could stomach. Just four days after that, a sizeable contingent departed Minas Tirith for Edoras to bring Theoden's body home for burial. 

"It's gonna be like a massive party, and I'm gonna miss it," Dawn lamented as she and Boromir stood at the broken gate of the White City to say goodbye.

"You had your chance with the ship," Buffy replied with a grin. "Could have had a honkin' big boat party, but no."

"You'll be back soon?"

"We'll be back before the baby's due," was all Buffy could promise, for she didn't know how long it would take to do everything they needed to do, and all too soon Elessar and Eomer were ushering them toward the horses. Buffy hurried to hug Boromir, patted her future nephew or niece one last time, and hopped into the saddle.

Buffy found herself vastly relieved to be on the road again. Being cooped up, even in a city as big and convenient as Minas Tirith, made her antsy; she'd been a wanderer for far too long since coming to Middle-Earth to enjoy staying in one place too long, and said as much to Legolas. 

"What if I get bored living in Ithilien?" she worried aloud one evening during the journey, as they curled up against each other in their bedroll rather a bit far from the fire, in a private little cove of trees. "What if I get a scorching case of cabin fever?"

"Then we shall strike out on another adventure," he replied, unperturbed. "There is much still to see in Middle-Earth… you can bring me to Forlinden… Gimli wishes to show me all the treasures of the dwarf realms, and I would show him the forests of my youth. You, I would introduce to my father… ah, how I cannot wait to see his face…"

She raised up to look him in the face. "You only married me for the shock value, didn't you?" she teased. "I knew it; I'm an undesirable element. The elven equivalent to hooking up with an unemployed biker with a lot of piercings and tattoos."

Legolas was used to her saying things that made no sense to him, so it was no bother whatsoever. "Undesirable?" he asked, tracing a fingertip down the soft skin of her cheek. "I think not, _herves-nîn_."

Then he kissed her, and she forgot all about cabin fever, and bikers, and anything except the feel of his lips and hands on her body. And when it was all over and she sighed "I love you, Legolas" before falling asleep, he even managed to forget about the call of the gulls for a short while, too.

_herves-nîn_ = my wife


	22. Chapter 32

Author's Note: y'all might recognize a certain quote during this chapter… I couldn't help using it, as it's one of my all-time favourites. 

This is the last chapter, folks. I can't tell you how surprised I am not only at how popular this story has become, but how much I've fallen in love with it myself. You've all been instrumental in developing and completing it, and if I could hug you all personally, I would. I'll just have to settle for teasing you with the promise of a sequel in the next few months.

Thank you so much.

The Gift of Death, Chapter 32

At Edoras, Theoden was laid to rest beside his son. Theodred's grave was still somewhat fresh, with only a few bits of grass growing over it yet, and there was something grotesque about digging another so soon after the first. Eomer and Eowyn clung to each other as their uncle was lowered into the ground, but Merry stood alone, disconsolate, and dropped a fat pouch of pipe-weed on the shroud-wrapped form below.

"As a father to me, you were, Theoden! Farewell!"

Eomer was crowned king of Rohan, and at the feast thereafter he announced Eowyn's betrothal to Faramir. Eowyn stood tall, every inch the noblewoman and lady she'd seemed that first glimpse Buffy had had of her, but the brittleness that had made Buffy wary was gone, especially when she looked upon her betrothed. Faramir, for his part, couldn't seem to stop smiling, which was nice to see because he was somewhat of a more serious man than his brother, and given much to introspection. 

"Brooders," Buffy muttered under her breath. She had plenty of experience with brooders; Angel's King of Pain act had been the classic and definitive example. Denethor's final actions had marked Faramir deeply, and Boromir had been worried about him. She watched him that day, saw him so happy, and knew that her newest brother would not succumb to his sorrow. 

"Gah," she said to Legolas, who turned from his conversation with Gimli to attend her. "I'm becoming some kind of deeply philosophical wise-woman. I think you elves are a bad influence on me."

Across the table, Celeborn's eyes lit up. "Philosophy?" he asked in delight. "I have just finished reading—" He was cut off by his wife's gentle hand on his arm.

"Dearest, let us go speak with our granddaughter," she said in her tranquil voice and bestowed a glorious smile upon him. Celeborn heaved the sigh of the long-married husband and rose, holding out his hand to Galadriel and shooting an exasperated glance around him. 

"Don't worry, Celeborn, some day you'll find someone else to nerd around with," Buffy told him cheekily, laughing when he quirked a silver brow and led Galadriel in Arwen's direction. "Weird," she said to no one in particular. "Never thought elves could be geeks."

As it turned out, elves could also have temper tantrums. When it came time to depart for those who would carry on the journey, and for Arwen and Elrond to say goodbye (for she would go no further than Edoras) they had the elven equivalent of a knock-down, drag-out fight. To Buffy's disappointment, hardly a sound could be heard from the room where father and daughter closeted themselves (elven slobberknockers being very much like regular conversations but with loads more tension), but when it was over they emerged with eyes were bright and hard, and red spots of colour on their fair cheeks. 

Their party, minus Faramir now as well, continued on to Helm's Deep. "It is time for you to fulfill your end of the bargain, elf!" Gimli cried, referring to the promise they had made the first time they had been at that fortress: to show the other what they found beautiful in their native worlds. 

Deeper and deeper Gimli led them into the Glittering Caves, and Buffy thought Legolas might crush her hand as the walls grew ever closer around them. "It will be worth it," Gimli assured his friend, and Legolas gave him a tight smile in return. "Now close your eyes! For I would have this be a surprise to you!"

They did as instructed, and the dwarf took one of their hands in each of his and pulled them after him. Buffy could tell that the air was gradually getting fresher, for which she was very glad, because it was pretty musty down there.

"You may look now," Gimli said, his gleeful voice echoing, and Buffy opened her eyes to find they were in an immense underground cavern. Far, far above was a jagged hole in the rock, and sunlight poured through to fall in a straight column of butter-yellow to the ground. Motes floated gently like bits of stardust, and wherever the light struck, brilliant colours flashed and sparkled because the entire place was encrusted with…

"Are those **diamonds**?" she whispered, barely daring to breathe for fear of dispelling what must surely be a dream. She raised a hand and stared at the flashes of cerulean and celadon that darted over her skin.

"Except for the veins of mithril in the walls, aye," Gimli affirmed, grinning at her disbelieving enchantment with the cavern. Streaks of fuchsia  and salmon-pink lay across his broad, bearded face, thrown by the refractions. "Legolas, what think you of this?"

"I—" Legolas began, but stopped. "It is—" This time he frowned. "This—" He was starting to get annoyed now, even as golden and tawny-orange twinkles surrounded him like a halo.

"It's beautiful, isn't it, honey?" Buffy asked solicitously, taking his hand and squeezing it. He nodded. "And wasn't Gimli right about how nice it would be?" Another nod. "And aren't you glad he brought us?" A third nod, and she turned to the dwarf. "There you have it, Gimli. You've knocked him speechless."

Gimli crowed in triumph, not even minding when Legolas grouched, "It will be the one and only time, dwarf, so enjoy this brief moment while it will last." He was very keen to even the score, and didn't want to wait at all to go to Fangorn but Buffy asked him **very** nicely indeed, so he agreed to travel north until Galadriel and Celeborn turned eastward to go home. "We shall part from them at Dimrill Stair and head south," he announced, seeming pleased a course had been set. 

That settled, the group went to Isen to see what the Ents had gotten up to in the interim. There, they learned that Treebeard had allowed Saruman and Grima to escape. Gandalf wasn't glad to hear that, not at all, but manfully (Maia-fully?) bore up. Treebeard gave Ent-draughts to Merry and Pippin, and Buffy was tempted to ask for one herself…

"I could do with being a few inches taller," she said, looking wistfully at the Hobbits as they drank their bowls of the funky-smelling stuff. 

"But if you were, I could not do this," Legolas told her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and resting his chin on her head. "And this is my favourite position for us."

She tilted her head back to look up at him. "It is?" she asked, eyes innocently wide in a way that made everyone around her very suspicious. "I thought your favourite was when I was—"

"Ahem," Elessar coughed loudly, and they looked over at him. "I am but newly wed, and you will corrupt me with your wicked speech."

Buffy snorted. "Corrupt? You? You're like ninety years old. I don't think so." He only grinned at her.

That grin was one of the last things they saw of him, for he was going no farther than the Gap of Rohan. "You'll take care of Dawnie until I get back to Minas Tirith?" Buffy asked, clinging to him.

"She is with her husband, you know," he replied, his voice mild as he looked fondly down at her. "I daresay he is up to the task himself."

"I know, I know," she grumbled back. "It's just that… well, you know…"

"I trust you above all others, as well, Dagnir," Elessar murmured. "You have ever been a staunch ally, and fine friend. I am proud to count you as foster-sister."

Buffy sniffled a little. "You never knighted me, you know."

"It was apurpose," he declared. "For now you have another reason to hasten back to the White City."

The Hobbits were sad to leave him as well, for he had been their companion since leaving Bree so long ago, and they all hugged him until he begged mercy. "We will see each other again, that is my promise as your king," he told them affectionately. 

The diminished party travelled for another week up the western border of the Misty Mountains before a grubby pair of beggars accosted them. 

"Hello, Saruman!" Gandalf greeting his fellow Istari amiably. "Where are you going?"

Saruman replied in the Middle-Earth equivalent of "what's it to you?" and the two were off and running in a war of words. Buffy took the opportunity to dismount and stretch her legs, perhaps find a private bush to take care of a few pressing needs (or at least one in particular). She'd just located a nice, leafy shrub that looked promising when she felt a touch on the back of her leg.

Spinning, she looked down to see the other beggar—the one not arguing with Gandalf—staring pitifully up at her from where he crouched in the dirt. It was that wormy guy Theoden had kicked out of Edoras once Gandalf had restored him. He was filthy, with matted hair and many bruises on his face and neck, and she recoiled at the sight of him. "Don't touch me, you're crusty. What do you want?"

"Mercy upon poor old Grima, milady!" the wretch moaned, and hugged her around the knees. "Always beaten and cursed! How I hate Saruman! I wish I could leave him!"

"So leave him," Buffy retorted, peeling him off. "What are you, some sort of battered wife? This co-dependant thing just isn't healthy. Embrace the pain, spank your inner moppet, whatever, but get over it."

Grima's wasn't the only blank look her monologue received, and she just threw up her hands in disgust before rounding the shrub. 

"I think not," Legolas said, off his horse in a flash to grab the scruff of Grima's neck when he went to follow Buffy. "My wife prefers to be alone for such moments." He deposited the man none too gently at Saruman's feet. "If you think to curry some pity from her because she is female, you are destined to disappointment. There is no softness in her heart for such as you."

Saruman cuffed Grima about the head, and dragged him off in the opposite direction, muttering maledictions the whole way. Buffy was relieved to see them gone when she rounded the shrub once more, and they passed from there into Dunland, and from Dunland to Eregion. 

All too soon it was time for the Lórien elves to turn east and cross over the Redhorn Gate. The Hobbits were in a flood of tears at parting from them, and Buffy was all teary as well. Even Gimli was heard to sniffle once or twice before the trees covering the mountain became too thick to see the little group at the foot, watching them. 

It took four days to cross through Redhorn Gate and descend at Dimrill. The exit from Moria and Khazad-dûm gaped like a huge, ominous mouth and Buffy shivered to remember what that grim day had been like, thinking Gandalf gone forever. That was before Dawn had come to Middle-Earth as well, and Buffy had expected her life to be just as bleak from that point forward as it had been before. 

She woke before everyone else the next morning, sitting in the tall grass and watching the sun rise over the Golden Wood in the distance, but was not surprised when bare feet walked up, and a body sat gracefully at her side. 

"How fare you this morn?" Galadriel asked, her voice pitched low so as to not wake anyone. The filmy sleeve of her gown brushed against Buffy's arm, and a perfume like fresh rain surrounded them. 

"Pretty good," Buffy replied, and lay her head on the elleth's shoulder. "You?"

"I am well," replied Galadriel serenely. "My heart is glad to know that all is as it should be; the Ring is destroyed, though the Ringbearer succumbed at the last. Gollum's greed was his doom, as shall always befall any who revere what they should not."

"How are you feeling about Arwen?" asked Buffy. "I know Elrond's panties are in the mother of all wads about her staying here instead of going with him to Valinor." 

"Elrond has lost many in his life; his brother chose the fate of Man, and died many years ago. His wife, my sweet Celebrían, passed to the Undying Lands without him in the last century. Arwen as his only daughter has ever been precious to him, and he sees her decision as a preference of Elessar over her father." Galadriel sighed. "And I fear that my grandsons will choose mortality, and remain on Middle-Earth, as well." Buffy gasped in surprise, and the elf-witch continued. "So you see, there is much for him to be displeased about."

"Must be tough for you too," Buffy ventured after a few minutes of silence. "Three grandchildren, and none choosing elfdom?"

"I have wondered what we did wrong in raising them, yes," the other admitted dryly, and Buffy bumped her shoulder against Galadriel's playfully. 

"Well, you'll be glad to know that I chose immortality, even if I'm not an elf, or half-elf, or related to you in any way."

"Speaking of relations," Galadriel commented, glancing sideways at her, "You are happy with Legolas? Haldir was… most vocal when he returned. There was the matter of a misunderstanding, and Legolas' treatment of you was… how did he put it? 'Thoroughly shameful for an elf of his years. Would Dagnir not beat me, I would knock that Mirkwood pup senseless!' Ah, yes, that was it."

Buffy giggled. "Haldir's a sweetie. Waaaaaaay too protective, but sweet."

Another silvery-blue glance was slid in her direction. "And is my march-warden's heart broken?"

"Hardly," Buffy snorted. "We've never been anything than really good friends who happen to have really good sex. And now that the nookie's over, he's practically my big brother." She paused, thinking. "I seem to have acquired a lot of brothers in the past year… Haldir, Elessar, Boromir, Faramir, Gimli, the Hobbits… no, wait, they're more like children." 

Warming to her topic, she leant back on her hands and crossed her ankles as she admired the play of tender golden light on the gently swaying grasses. "Celeborn's the hot but nerdy professor, and Gandalf's like a batty but stern great-uncle. Elrond reminds me a lot of a principle I had back in high school. Except, way tastier."

Galadriel smiled, and it vied with the barely risen sun for splendor. "And I, Dagnir? What am I?"

Buffy smiled back. "You're my best friend." She sobered at a sudden thought. "I'm gonna miss you like crazy when you leave, you know."

A tilt of the head brought Galadriel's hair brushing the ground, pooling like molten gold. "Then you will just have to come with me, will you not?"

Hazel eyes widened in surprise. "I can do that? They'll let me?"

"Your best friend is in rather good standing with the Valar, Buffy. Anything is possible." She brought her knees up and rested her chin on them, closing her eyes when the sun finally broke clear of the mellyrn in the distance. "Anything."

THE END


	23. Chapter 1

Title: The Gift of Death

Author: CinnamonGrrl

Disclaimer: I own nothing but an '89 Caddy Eldorado with a broken tape deck, and you're welcome to it. 

Rating: Who knows what offends people? I gave it an R just to be sure. Not much nooky, though—mostly just violence.

Updates: announced and uploaded here first: groups dot yahoo dot com slash group slash cinnamongrrl, or click on my name up top and you'll see the link to my yahoo group (CinnamonGrrl's Fanfiction).

Author's Note: This is a revamp of the original story; since I didn't have the books when writing the first half of TGoD, I felt I hadn't done it proper justice. I look now to rectify that failing.

The Gift of Death, Part One

She looked impossibly tiny as she entered Rivendell; or perhaps it was because the horse was immense. Whatever the reason, many heads turned to watch the progress of the woman as she cantered into the ancient Elvin city, the sun gleaming on the long honey-brown plait hanging down her straight back.

"Who is she?" asked many, but only one knew the answer, and when the woman halted her mount and slid off, he went quickly to her side.

"Strider," she greeted him. Her voice was unusually accented for Rivendell; indeed, for all of Middle-Earth. "Did I miss anything?" She peeled off battered leather gloves and tucked them into her belt.

"We have not yet started," he replied, expression curious. "In truth, I am surprised to see you here. Did Gandalf tell you to come?"

"Galadriel," she replied succinctly, pulling off a thick woolen cloak, and removing a heavy overtunic. Under it she wore a lighter one of green linen. 

Strider raised a brow enquiringly, but no more explanation was forthcoming. Finally he said, "Your journey was uneventful?"

She shrugged. "As it ever is." She peered up at the sky, hazel eyes glinting in the sunlight. "I made good time."

"From where did you come?" 

"Forlond." She strapped a feedbag to her horse's head and tied his reins to a hitching post. "They had an ice wraith problem."

_Ah_, Strider thought, _she had been in the Ered Luin, the ice-covered mountains of the northern realm of Lindon_. That explained all the layers of clothing. "How long has it been since we last met?" he asked companionably as they fell into step, entering one of the buildings.

"At least three years, I'd say," she replied, eyes flicking over her surroundings in a professional way before relaxing and appreciating their beauty. "Time flies when you're decapitating orcs."

"And ice wraiths," Strider grinned, and was pleased to see the corner of her mouth twitch in what could, generously, be called a smile. 

"So," she continued. "Are you gonna tell me what's the what with this council Elrond has called? Or am I gonna have to wait for everyone else?" He hesitated, and she punched his shoulder playfully. "C'mon, Strider. You know I hate mysteries."

_That's rich coming from her, he thought_—she was almost as enigmatic as an elf. "How is it you do not know about the One Ring?"

Now it was her turn to lift a brow. "I am not from here," she told him. "You know that."

"Yes, but never will you tell me where you **are **from," he said impatiently, knowing already what she would say. He'd asked her dozens of times in the ten years they'd known each other, after all, and it was always the same.

"From somewhere long ago and far away," she said by rote, and punched his arm again. "Don't you get tired of that question? Answer's not gonna change, you know."

"I know," Strider grumbled. "I just keep hoping one time you'll let something slip."

She snorted and pushed open a door. "Not likely. Dagnir doesn't slip." 

Dagnir was the name she was called by those who knew of her. In the Elvin language of Sindarin, it meant "Slayer". Only a privileged few knew her real name; Strider considered himself fortunate to be amoung their number. He sighed, and followed her into the room. "I know, Buffy."

*

Elrond was not happy about having a woman partake of the meeting to discuss the One Ring, not even a Ranger of over a decade's experience, not even Dagnir herself. It was only because of Galadriel's recommendation and Strider's heartfelt assurances of her abilities that Elrond relented, and though she remained silent throughout, he was aware of her sharp observance.

When it came time to choose the members of the Fellowship, he had thought she would stand then, that she would announce her intention to join them. But she merely sat there, one leg crossed casually over the other, foot bouncing idly as she watched. 

The Fellowship had to wait over two months while scouts departed and returned and preparations for their journey were made. The time was put to good use, training the Hobbits how to employ their little swords until the halflings collapsed in exhaustion to the ground, begging for mercy.

"Poor babies," drawled a feminine voice at the end of one such day after Strider had returned from his scouting with the sons of Elrond. It came from behind a tree at the edge of the clearing where stood the Fellowship, and was followed by the figure of the female Ranger. She smirked at Strider, whom the others now knew as Aragorn. "I don't expect you're getting too much of a work-out with these guys, Strider."

The light of combat was in her eyes, he saw, and smiled. "Indeed not, Lady. Might I trouble you for a remedy to that problem?"

Her sword was in her hand before he'd finished speaking. "Thought you'd never ask." Blades flashing, hair flying, they slashed and parried and blocked and thrust until both were drooping with fatigue. "You've gotten better," Buffy told him, leaning on her sword stuck in the ground as she caught her breath. 

"You've gotten faster," he replied, swiping the sweaty hair from his forehead. "And…" he looked at her consideringly. "You haven't aged."

She looked nervous, suddenly. "It's only been three years. I'm very well preserved."

"No, I mean you haven't aged at all since I met you. Over ten years ago." Eyes narrowed, he stalked to her, lifting her chin to peer into her face. When he'd first laid eyes on her, she'd looked to be barely two score in years, with a youthful, unlined face and eyes that were, if not bright, at least not dimmed with age. "Over ten years ago," he repeated, "and you still look as you did then." The decade of passed time had not left a mark on her; not a single one.

Dagnir pulled away from him. "I eat right, stay out of the sun. I meditate. Keeps me young." She glared stonily at him, daring to push harder. 

Aragorn sighed and gave up, watching as she strode from the clearing. He did not see her again before the Fellowship departed from Rivendell. Dagnir always removed herself whenever he tried to weasel more information out of her than she was prepared to give.

Three weeks later, the Fellowship halted at the foot of the intimidating Caradhras to stare up at its foreboding, snowy heights.

Legolas stepped closer to Aragorn and spoke, his voice pitched low so only the ranger would hear. "We are being followed. One man, on horseback."

Aragorn nodded. "Since we left Rivendell."

The elf's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. "You knew? I only detected him after the crebain came to us." He looked highly affronted that a human—no matter how regal his ancestry—would be able to detect a presence before he, an elf.

Aragorn clapped his hand on Legolas' shoulder. "Fret not, my friend," he said with a smile. "I knew not because I could hear her—and it is a her—but because it is exactly the sort of thing she would do."

The tiny thinning of Legolas' lips was the only indication of his shock. "Not the ranger with whom you sparred?"

"The same." 

Legolas looked thoughtful. "She did not seem overly trustworthy," he said at last. "She hides much of her past. Is she a danger to our mission?"

Aragorn surveyed the rest of the Fellowship; not one looked eager to begin the climb. "No," he said at last. "If there is one being in Middle-Earth beside Bombadil who is impervious to Sauron and the forces of evil, it is she. If she follows, it is as guardian, not predator."

Legolas nodded, and Aragorn felt a pang of joy that this elf, who had lived thirty times longer than he himself, would trust him so. Perhaps his task of uniting all Men was not so hopeless, after all…

"Let us climb," he said, hope infusing his voice with a briskness he had not felt since departing Rivendell.

*

Hours later, after struggling up the mountain, the Fellowship was exhausted and despondent. The last in the party, Merry cried out as he tumbled into a snowdrift. Aragorn turned to help him, only to see a figure swathed in a dark cloak grab the Hobbit by the scruff of the neck and haul him up again. Clutched in the figure's other hand were the reins to a nondescript brown horse, its head lowered against the wind and blowing snow.

"So, Dagnir, you decide to join us at last?" he called through cupped hands. The wind snatched his words and hurled them away, but she was able to hear him anyway.

"You know me, I'm a sucker for depressing, hopeless missions without any chance of fun," she called back, her voice incongruously cheery for such a miserable place. "Couldn't let you have all the unwashed, sleeping-on-the-ground excitement."

The other Fellows spun as best they could in the deep snow, staring in amazement at their newest companion.

"Who is this?" demanded Gimli, his eyes narrow as he watched Dagnir plop Merry onto the back of her horse ("His name's Gordo," she told the Hobbit) and enviously eye the ease with which Legolas was scampering on top of the snow.

"She is Dagnir, the Ranger you met in Rivendell," Aragorn replied. "She keeps to the north, to Ered Luin and the Bay of Forochel. She was late of Forland, killing an ice wraith that had been terrorizing the countryside."

The dwarf's ice-encrusted brows raised. "That is a rough land. The elves that live there are not given to accepting outsiders warmly. Is she one of them?"

"In truth, I do not know," Aragorn admitted. "She is no elf, but has not aged a day in the years I have known her. If anything, she grows more quick, more agile. She has no surname, and will not talk of her family, nor her past. I asked her once if she came from Rhûn, and she laughed and said her home was much, much farther than that—"

His words were cut off by Frodo's panicked cry. "The ring! It is gone!"

Immediately they all began to scan the nearby ground for it. "Ah," said Boromir, plucking a golden chain from the snow with his gloved fingers, letting the ring dangle before his avid face. "It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing. Such a little thing..."

Frodo's eyes were huge in his pale, anxious face as they flicked back and forth between the ring, swaying seductively on its chain, and Boromir. 

The look on the Gondorian's face chilled Aragorn's blood more than Caradhras' cruel climate ever could. "Boromir!" he barked. "Give the ring to Frodo!"

Boromir's glance lingered lovingly on the ring a last moment before he consciously schooled his features to neutrality. "As you wish," he said carelessly, dropping it into Frodo's outstretched hand. "I care not."

Dagnir's head snapped up at the same time Legolas said, "There is a foul voice on the air."

"It is Saruman!" exclaimed Gandalf.

"He's trying to bring down the mountain," Aragorn declared. "Gandalf, we must turn back."

"No!" Gandalf's voice was steely with resolve as he raised his staff and intoned a spell. "Losto Caradhras, sedho, hodo, uitho I 'ruith!" (Sleep Caradhras, be still, lie still, hold your wrath)

  
The only reply he received was an ominous rumbling that preceded the avalanche, burying them all in massive snowdrifts. Legolas and Aragorn were the first to struggle free, and proceeded to dig out the others while Gandalf used a spell to melt the snow covering him.

"Six, seven, eight, nine," Aragorn counted under his breath. All except… "Dagnir!"

He heard a muffled "Goddamnit!" and could not stifle his grin as he made his way toward the sound. Digging swiftly, he soon uncovered the small woman. Her face was red-- more from anger, he suspected, than from cold— and she had snow all over her.

"It's even up my nose," she moaned, scrubbing at her face with a gloved hand. "This isn't working, Strider. We'll never get across."

Reluctantly, the others came to the same realization, and it was a long, slow day as they retraced their steps back down the mountain. Aragorn tried many times to learn why Dagnir had decided to accompany them, but ever was she evading him, saying she had to help a Hobbit or some other transparent excuse. 

Back on flat ground once more, a discussion was held to decide how to proceed. 

"We have but two choices," Gandalf said, grey hair hanging limply around his lined face. "To return to Rivendell, or continue to Mordor."

The Hobbits raised weary eyes in hope at the mention of Rivendell, but the Men's faces were impassive. 

"You guys can go back if you want," Dagnir said, breaking the silence that had fallen, "but if you do, I'm going to keep going." 

"You will take the ring to Mordor?" Aragorn asked her, grey eyes fixed on her face. She nodded. "And what if Frodo will not relinquish it? What if we nine forbid you to take it?"

"Then I will kill each and every one of you to get the ring." Dagnir met his gaze evenly, then that of each other them. 

"You could not do that," Gimli blustered, smiling his amusement at the very idea. "Tis ludicrous."

Dagnir favoured him with what could loosely be termed a smile, but it was neither pretty nor pleasant. "I do what needs to be done," she informed him calmly. "Not that I'd want to kill you guy, because you all seem pretty cool, but…" Her hazel eyes clouded over, and she seemed lost in a thought before they focused once more. "I do what needs to be done," she finished. "And I destroy whatever gets in my way."

Aragorn subdued a shiver; long he'd known her to be a formidable ally and dangerous enemy, but never had her convictions been turned upon him, and he had a moment's foreboding that he would not be able to defend himself against her. He doubted even Boromir would be able to withstand her, were she to truly apply her talents toward destruction of their party. 

"I will not turn back," Frodo said at last. "Even if it be just Dagnir and I, I will see this quest done." He was rewarded with a big but all-too-brief smile from her, and Gandalf sighed. 

"There is another path we may take," he allowed, "but it is not a name that will bring any pleasure to your ears; I speak of Moria." Only Gimli showed any enthusiasm for it. "I have been there, and lived to tell the tale, but would not undertake it again had I the choice."

"As have I," Aragorn said, "and I concur. .'Tis not a place I wish to enter a second time."

"And I don't want to enter it even once!" exclaimed Pippin.

"I will **not** go unless all have decided against me," Boromir stated flatly, looking round at his companions. "What say you all?"

"I do not wish to go through Moria," Legolas said quietly, and the others turned to confront the Hobbits, who held the decision in their little hands. 

There was a long, awkward silence, and then Frodo stammered, "I- I think we should leave the decision to the morrow. I for one cannot vote fairly on a night such as this." He shuddered and shrunk deeper into his elven cloak. "How the wind howls!"

"That's not wind," Dagnir muttered, eyes narrowing to slits as she glanced to Aragorn for confirmation of her suspicions.

He gave it. "The Wargs have come west of the mountains." Quickly, he ushered the rest to the top of a hill crowned by a ring of trees and boulders, and within the ring lit a fire. Bill the Pony and Gordo the Horse were nervous, and Legolas spoke a few gentle words to them in Sindarin to ease their fright. 

A huge wolf-shape slunk through the surrounding trees, and in spite of Gandalf's impressive warning to go away, it leapt at them. But no sooner had its rear feet left the ground than the twang of a bowstring sounded clearly in the gloom; Legolas had loosed an arrow into the beast's throat. 

At once, the other Wargs retreated, and though Aragorn and Dagnir explored the hill for them, could find none. "Best to get what sleep you might," he told the Hobbits grimly, and sat on a flat rock, sword still in hand, to wait out the remainder of the night. 

Several hours later Dagnir, Boromir, and Gimli dozed lightly as Aragorn and Gandalf sat stiffly awake, keeping stern watch. As if bidden by a conductor, a chorus of wolven cries burst from all sides around them, with a bound, the seven sleepers were awake and on their feet. 

The Hobbits were quick to pile wood on the first while the others stood back-to-back and began to fight; Aragorn stabbed one, Boromir sliced the head off another. Gimli hacked at a third with his axe, and Legolas' arrows took down two at once while Dagnir leapt forward, somersaulted in the air, and landed on the back of a particularly large one. Hooking her arm round its neck as much to maintain her seat as to keep its snarling maw from chewing on her, she grasped its muzzle in her free hand and with a sudden wrench, shattered its neck vertebrae. 

Leaping lightly off the Warg's corpse, she turned to confront the next one but before she could, Gandalf was tossing a fiery brand up into the air and chanting in Sindarin. Right away, the hill was lit with a fire storm, and mid-flight, Legolas' last arrow was set alight and hurtled, aflame, into the heart of one of the wolf-chieftains. 

At this, the rest of their foes skidded to a halt, then turned and bolted away into the lightening shadows of dawn. When day had fully broken, the Fellowship was dismayed, putting it lightly, to learn there was no sign of the defeated Wargs—the only evidence that remained were Legolas' arrows scattered round the hilltop, every single one undamaged but the one that had caught fire. 

Soberly, he collected them and replaced them in his quiver as Gandalf intoned, "No ordinary wolves, they." He surveyed the hills around them, gaze alighting on the grey cliffs in the distance that revealed themselves with the brightening day. "Come," Gandalf said. "We make for Moria."


	24. Chapter 2

The Gift of Death, Part Two

"Is she **crying**?" Pippin asked Merry, round-eyed as he watched the small woman sniffle and scrub at her face with her fists.

"I think she is," Merry replied, equally amazed. "She seems very attached to that horse. Even if she did give it a most unusual name."

"I don't blame 'er," Sam piped up. "I feel like crying m'self, having to leave Bill 'ere, and we've not known him long. I think she's had Gordo for years. Like a member of the family, he is."

With a final snuffle, Dagnir hugged the horse round his neck a last time, then turned to glare fiercely at the others, who were watching her with curiosity (the Hobbits), derision (Boromir and Gimli) or utter blankness (Aragorn and Legolas).

"It's always the same with women," Boromir said airily, tilting his head back and surveying her down the length of his nose . "No matter how battle-hardened they say they are, it always ends in tears."

"On behalf of my gender— hey!" Dagnir exclaimed, hands on hips. "You keep talking that way and this is gonna end in tears, alright— yours."

Boromir backed away, hands held up in mocking surrender. "Yes, Dagnir. I meant nothing by it." She just curled her lip at him and stomped over to the pile of supplies she'd removed from Gordo, and the rest dispersed, Merry and Pippin scooping up handfuls of pebbles to toss into the water. Gimli and Legolas began to bicker about whose fault it was that the passage from Holllin had gone unused for so long—Dwarves or Elves?

"Any progress yet, Gandalf?" Frodo asked quietly as the debate raged on. The wizard had been trying for the past hour to speak the correct password to enter the gate of Moria.

"I'm afraid not," Gandalf replied shortly. Silence fell, broken only by the _plop!_ of Merry's stone in the water. Pippin made to throw his own but was halted by Aragorn.

"It's a riddle!" Frodo said suddenly. "Speak friend and enter… what's the Elvin word for friend?"

Gandalf blinked. "Mellon." And blinked again as the doors parted smoothly. His frown was very deep indeed as they entered the cave.

"Soon, Mr. Elf, you will experience the fabled hospitality of the Dwarves: roaring fires, malt beer, red meat off the bone," Gimli told Legolas happily. "This, my friend, is the home of my cousin Balin. And they call it a mine. A mine!"

It was very dark, and mysterious things crunched beneath their feet. Boromir lit raised his torch high and gasped at the sight that was illuminated. "This is no mine," he said grimly. "It is a tomb."

"No!" Gimli shouted, his voice echoing against stone walls as his eyes darted around at the skeletons scattered across the ground. "No!"

"Goblins," Legolas muttered succinctly as he squatted and picked up an arrow.

"We make for the Gap of Rohan!" declared Boromir. "We should never have come here. Now get out, get out!"

Dagnir held up a hand for silence. The usual prattlings of the halflings were absent. "Where are the Hobbits?" she asked, looking around, and turned to jog back outside the gate. 

Without was chaos; a water-creature had snagged poor Frodo by the leg and dangled him high in the air by a long, glistening tentacle of pale, sickly green; the other three halflings were hacking at it ineffectually with their little swords.

Legolas began pelting the creature with arrows, which only seemed to infuriate it—flapping the unfortunate Frodo back and forth like a leaf in a windstorm. Drawing their weapons, all lunged at the beast and stabbed and slashed at it until the tentacle loosened and Aragorn could tug the Hobbit free.

"Still better than a Tsangor demon," Dagnir was heard to mutter as they dashed into the mines to escape the enraged thing. "Way fewer arms, and no mucus. Any mucus-free critter is a-ok with me."

Boromir just cleared the gate when the creature smashed into it, and it collapsed. Rocks rained down from above, and when the dust cleared, the entrance to the mines was obliterated. Their only means of escape was gone, and there was no choice—they must go through the mines of Moria.

They walked and walked, down narrow corridors and up steep stairs. Legolas stepped lightly as ever, but his face had a different set to it, as if he were clenching his jaw very tightly. When they were exhausted, they rested; when they were hungry, they ate. They spoke little. 

Finally they came to a set of three doors, and Gandalf halted, puzzling over which to select.

The Fellowship and Dagnir took the opportunity to rest a moment. Gandalf and Frodo bent their heads together, speaking in low voices, while the other Hobbits argued over being hungry.

The Men and the dwarf plopped to the ground, happy to take the weight of their armour and weapons off their feet, while the elf leant back against the wall and Dagnir pulled her long plait over her shoulder, grimacing at the mine dust caked in it. It was fairly evident that the silence was due to the males' awkwardness around a female.

"So, Dagnir," Gimli said at last. "You're a woman."

She looked at him, her face deadpan as she replied, "Yes. For many years now."

Gimli frowned; Aragorn and Boromir muffled their laughter. Legolas just watched.

"Why did you follow behind us for so long, Dagnir?" Aragorn asked. "Why did you not make yourself known earlier?"

"I don't play well with others," she replied, and dropped to sit beside him. "Besides, I snore, and God knows I couldn't live with myself if I disturbed your beauty sleep." The way she eyed them indicated her opinion that some needed it more than others. "Did you forget to bring soap again, Strider?"

He threw back his head and laughed; the sound bounced off the stone walls. "If I did, I know you will press some of yours on me. I can only hope I will not end this journey smelling of lilacs or roses."

"It's honeysuckle," Dagnir replied crossly, unbraiding her hair. "And smelling flowery is the least of your worries, bucko." She stretched an arm over her head, then the other. "So, you gonna tell me who these other guys are, or am I gonna have to call them Elf Guy, Dwarf Guy, and Horny Guy?" They all looked at her oddly. 

"Which one of us would be Horny Guy?" Aragorn asked mildly.

"Him," she said, jerking her thumb at Boromir, who looked dismayed. "Because he's got the horn!" She tapped it where it hung at his waist, and rolled her eyes. 

Aragorn smiled. "Quite right. Dagnir, this is Gimli, son of Gloin—" the dwarf nodded at her, and she nodded back, "Legolas, son of Thranduil and prince of Mirkwood—" she saluted him smartly, which he returned with a raised eyebrow, "And—" here he coughed delicately, "Horny Guy is Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor." She grinned at Boromir, who glowered at her.

"That's a pretty good frown," she told him. "I give it a seven out of ten for sheer bad temper, plus an extra point for all the stubble. Really drives home the intimidation factor."

There was a bit of silence, marred only by Sam shouting at Merry and Pippin to stop arguing over whether elevenses really **should** be held at eleven o'clock.

"So!" Gimli finally said with forced cheer. "You're Dagnir, the Slayer." She nodded. "I like that in a woman."

"This **is** my lucky day," she muttered, busying herself with rummaging through her pack, and Aragorn hid a smile, knowing her to be worrying about fending off the advances of an amorous dwarf.

"What is a slayer?" Legolas asked from his stance against the wall.

"Just what it sounds like," she replied, coming up with a comb and starting to run it through her hair. It was the only thing that had changed since he'd met her, Aragorn realized. It was very long, falling past her waist. The last foot or so was very light, almost as pale as an elf's, but the rest was the colour of rich honey. "I slay things."

"What sort of things?" asked Boromir. "Evil things?"

She nodded, removing the last tangle before separating the mass into three parts for another braid. She braided her hair into a single smooth plait, her actions practiced. The men watched the movement of her deft hands, waiting for her to continue, but she said no more.

"Ah, it's that way!" Gandalf exclaimed from his perch further up the way, and they heaved themselves up to follow. For many miles they walked until the Hobbits were near-dead on their feet, and still they pressed on, seeing nothing but what was revealed by the all-too-small ring of light from Gandalf's staff. 

Suddenly the close walls on either side of them seemed to melt away, and the wizard chanced a larger burst of light to show their surroundings: a huge hall of glittering black stone, with tall, tall pillars arching upwards. 

"Behold! The great realm of the Dwarf city of Dwarrowdelf!" Gimli cried in delight as the others stared in amazement at the halls' lofty heights. Legolas lost the pinched look he'd acquired upon stepping through Moria Gate, and all breathed a sigh of relief until the brighter light was extinguished and they could see nothing but the gleam of Gandalf's staff in each other's eyes as they crowded close. 

"Let us find a cozy corner here, and sleep, for we have had none to speak highly of since entering Moria," Boromir declared, and the others were quick to agree. Huddled tightly against the draught that whispered through the great hall, Aragorn let sleepy eyes travel over his companions. To his left was Boromir, who adjusted the placement of the Horn of Gondor before dropping his head to his chest and closing his eyes; to his right was Dagnir, who lost no time in snuggling up to Legolas for warmth and falling asleep, but not before spotting the elf's expression of dismay and winking up at her fellow Ranger. 

Stifling a smile at Legolas' discomfort, he turned his attention to the Hobbits. Like a family of puppies, they had collapsed in the corner and passed out immediately, dirty faces smudged and exhausted. Merry's arm was tight around his cousin Pippin's shoulder, and Sam's one hand rested protectively near, but not touching, Frodo's leg even as the other grasped the pommel of his little sword. 

As for Frodo, he ventured a wobbly smile for his friend Strider, who returned it encouragingly. "Sleep, Frodo," Aragorn told him. "Sleep, for I do not know when you will next have the chance."

Frodo closed his eyes, and Aragorn did likewise, knowing Gandalf was on first watch. He awoke automatically when Legolas rose for his turn on watch hours later and Dagnir turned to him when her heat source was gone. Feeling her cuddle against him, he sighed and draped his arm round her shoulders. She was so small, with her bones as fragile-seeming as a bird's, and yet he'd seen the carnage she could wreak. 

He only wished she would reveal more of her past to him, for he could not blame Legolas for his distrust of her. She was a mystery, and worked hard to remain one. It was not the behaviour of a honorable warrior, to hide one's history. 

"Stop thinking so hard," she mumbled against him. "You'll get a cramp."

Aragorn sighed again and closed his own eyes, but sleep would not come for a long time. 

*

The next morning Dagnir untangled herself from between Aragorn and Legolas, who had resumed his former place, and came forward for her share of the cold breakfast Sam was trying to cobble from their supplies. Then they left the immense hall and entered another, much shorter corridor. There was light up ahead, and they hastened toward it. It fell in a straight, pale stream upon what was clearly a stone tomb, and Gimli rushed to it, muttering, "No, no, no no no…"

They looked on stoically as the dwarf knelt before the tomb, speaking brokenly in Dwarvish. Aragorn raised a brow to see Dagnir come forward and rest her hand on Gimli's shoulder, squeezing briefly.

Gandalf pulled a book from the grasp of a nearby skeleton and began to read in spite of Legolas' urging not to linger. " 'Drums, drums in the deep. We cannot get out. A shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out... They are coming...' " he read aloud.

A huge, echoing clatter interrupted the wizard, and they spun around to see Pippin standing beside a well, eyes shut tightly in dread. 

"Fool of a Took!" Gandalf raged. "Throw yourself in next time, and rid us of your stupidity!"

And then, softly at first, and growing in volume as they listened in horror, came the sound of drums. Frodo's sword, Sting, began to glow a bright blue.

"Orcs!" Legolas murmured. 

Boromir poked his head around the corner "They have a cave troll!" he declared grimly as he jerked back, narrowly missing being hit by arrows. He slammed the door shut and jammed long staves and polearms across to gird it more firmly.

"Let them come!" shouted Gimli, brandishing his axe, eyes alight with the thirst for vengeance. "There is one dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath."

They waited, bodies tensed, weapons poised. The creatures on the far side of the door began to hack at it.Legolas, Aragorn, and Dagnir readied their bows and as the orcs hacked through, began to loose arrows through the gaping holes. Screams and squeals of pain followed the twang of each bow, but finally the doors burst open and Dagnir and Aragorn relinquished bows for swords.

The room was flooded with orcs and goblins. Metal flashed as they battled the monsters, metal that swiftly became covered in black blood. Then the troll was led in, smashing into a wall, knocking part of it down as it pushed its inexorable way toward Frodo. Aragorn was flung into a wall, slumping unconscious to the floor.

The others rushed to occupy the troll while Frodo crouched over Aragorn, frantically trying to awaken the Ranger, but it stabbed out with its spear and caught the Hobbit neatly in the side, the force of the blow knocking Frodo into the corner.

Horrified, the swordsmen (and woman) distracted the beast while Legolas aimed the death blow carefully, loosing his arrow into the troll's throat. The Hobbits sobbed in fear for their friend, but Frodo grinned up at them from his prone position on the filthy floor—he was unhurt, and revealed a shirt of mithril under his tunic and cloak. 

"I think there is more to this Hobbit than meets the eye," Gandalf murmured, and Gimli exclaimed, "You are full of surprises, Master Baggins!"

"Enough of the back-slapping, boys," Dagnir said briskly, head cocked toward the hallway, listening hard. "There's more orcs coming."

"To the bridge of Khazad-dûm!" Gandalf commanded, and they set off, stumbling into yet another massive, high-ceilinged hall. Pelting into it at top speed, their eyes widened to see that creatures began to emerge from the very stone that surrounded them on all sides. and they were soon surrounded by a very large, very nasty troop of orcs and goblins with murder and blood-lust in their glistening black eyes.

They were feeling the end was near indeed when a fiery glow appeared at the end of the hall, and the monsters surrounding them slowly began drawing away, melting back into the stone and shadows until the Fellowship and Dagnir were left alone once more, the glow burning more brightly with each passing moment.

"Something so bad even they're afraid?" Dagnir asked, trepidation in her voice. "This is not of the good."

"A balrog," breathed Gandalf, grey eyes searching the darkness for their newest foe. "A demon of the ancient world." 

"Demon?" she inquired, perking up. "Leave it to me. I'm really good with demons."

He turned a stern face to her. "This foe is beyond any of you." She pouted, but he pointed sternly toward the broken staircase with his staff. He turned back to them. "You must run one final race! Keep going down the stairs, and keep to the right. Take the bridge!"

And they began to flee once more, until the Hobbits in front were brought up short by the abrupt end of the hall. A brief flight of stairs went down, terminating in a vast chasm that Frodo almost fell forward into, if not for Sam's frantic grab on his cloak hauling him  backward to safety.

One by one they leapt across. Gimli refused to be tossed but almost fell off, and only Legolas and Dagnir tugging him up by their grip on his beard saved him. And all the while, the balrog drew closer, its footsteps shuddering ever nearer and making the ground tremble. After days in the darkness, the light thrown by the demon was like the sun at midday, they found themselves squinting as their eyes ached from the increasing glow. 

With a roar and angry spreading of arms and wings, the balrog rounded a corner and revealed itself for the first time: a monstrous vision of shadow, flame, and smoke, with tiny coals for eyes burning in a face crowned by curving horns. Immense, hooved feet thudded down, leaving great scorched rings on the ground with each step, and in its clawed hand it gripped a long whip like a slender tongue of fire.

Once all but the wizard were across the chasm, they ran as fast as they could toward the other side even as orcish arrows pinged at them from left and right. Only when they were safely across did they look back, and saw then that Gandalf was not with them, but stood at the edge of the chasm, facing down the balrog.

"You shall not pass!" he thundered, and Aragorn dropped Pippin to draw his sword and charge forward with his war cry of "Elendil!"

Boromir hestitated not a moment, but sprang forward, yelling, "Gondor!" Dagnir followed a scant second later with a shout of "Sunnydale!" that would have puzzled them all greatly had they not other pressing issues to handle at the moment.

"You shall not pass!" Gandalf cried once more, and with a blow of his staff on the bridge, cracked it so the narrow bridge was rent asunder. Its footing lost, the demon tumbled with a roar of fury and outrage into the abyss below. Gandalf turned to face the Fellowship, and for a brief and shining moment they felt joy at his success. But the balrog would not be thwarted in his quarry, and his whip lashed out and up, wrapping around the wizard's knees and yanking him over the edge. "Fly, you fools!" Gandalf shouted as he tumbled down.

Stricken, they stood frozen in horror until orcish arrows began once more to pepper the ground near them, and each snatched up a Hobbit and began to run. A small band of groups guarding the entrance was quickly, almost perfunctorily dispatched as daylight glimmered just beyond.

Bursting free of the mine at last, their return to the sunlight was ignored as the Fellowship collapsed to their knees in grief. Dagnir watched them quietly, her head bent in recognition of the wizard's passing.

Aragorn, to Boromir's displeasure, insisted on continuing as fast as they could. "By nightfall these hills will be crawling with orc," he told them gruffly. "We must reach Lothlorien."

And so they began their trek once more, albeit at a slow and often stumbling pace, for the Hobbits at least were half-blinded by tears. After some hours they crossed a stream, taking a brief moment to drink and wash the tear-tracks from their faces. Aragorn stared northward, fondling a pendant on a chain around his neck and Dagnir commented on it.

"Arwen gave it to me, as a symbol of the love she bears me," he said almost shyly.

"Ah, true love," Dagnir said lightly, but there was something in her voice that made the words grate.

"You do not believe in true love?" Gimli asked sardonically, his face making it clear that he certainly didn't, and wouldn't blame her if she didn't, either.

"Oh, I believe in it, all right," she replied, her mouth an ugly, wry twist. "I have personal, first-hand knowledge of it, after all."

"You have shared in true love?" Legolas asked, skepticism plain in his expression. "Why, then, is your mate not at your side at this moment?" Aragorn wondered at the cruelty of the elf's question.

Buffy looked up at him, her green-gold gaze roaming over his tall, lithe body and pale hair and beautifully masculine face. "Because he turned evil, and I had to send him to hell," she replied at last, her face utterly blank, and stood while the others gaped at her. "I told you before: I do what needs to be done. I suggest you not forget it."

She brushed some grass off the seat of her trousers. "Shall we continue?" she asked, very businesslike, and began walking toward the forest once more, uncaring if they followed.


	25. Chapter 3

The Gift of Death, Part 3

It took two days to travel from Dimrill Dale, where they exited the mines, to Lorien. Dagnir hardly said a single world to the others, only replying when spoken to, and slept apart from them at night. She seemed very familiar with the area, and seemed to cheer up the closer they came to the forest. Aragorn, for one, was pleased that the haunted expression in her eyes was all but faded when they stepped into the embrace of the massive mellyrn trees.

There was a tense moment as Sam and Frodo fell behind because of their injuries—Frodo's from the Nazgûl, when he crossed the Ford of Bruinen, and Sam had received a graze from an orcish sword in Moria. Aragorn treated both of them, and declared they would stay for the night and henceforth take a slower pace. 

They came at last the next day to the Nimrodel, said to ease the aches and pains of travel, and took a rest. Legolas became quite animated for perhaps the first time on their journey, singing part of a song about the elleth for whom the river was named and telling what tales he knew of the Galadhrim, or Tree-people, who lived in Lothlórien.

For her part, Dagnir said nothing, and her face was expressionless, but still Aragorn could sense how very amused she was by their blind speculation about the residents of the Golden Wood. "You know more than you are telling, Dagnir," he accused mildly.

The corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. "Yep," she agreed, leaning back against the trunk of a nearby tree.

"And you will not share with us this knowledge?" Boromir asked. He was somewhat grumpy this day, for he was no more happy to enter this forest than he had been to take the Moria pass. 

Now she smiled outright. "Nope." Then she turned to Frodo in a completely unsubtle attempt to change the subject. "How are you feeling?"

After they were rested once more, they continued on their way deeper into the woods, and Gimli decided to put a bit of a scare in the halflings. "Stay close, young Hobbits," he told them. "They say that a great sorceress lives in these woods. An elf-witch of terrible power. All who look upon her fall under her spell, and are never seen again."

The Hobbits trembled at the idea, and Dagnir frowned. "Gimli, your mouth is open, and sound is coming from it. This is never good."

Ignoring her, he continued blithely, "Well, here's one dwarf she won't ensnare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox." His mouth opened to spout another boast, but a nocked bow appeared mere inches from his face and he shut it with an audible click. Around the Fellowship were several Elvin archers, all pointing similarly nocked bows at them.

"The dwarf breathes so loud, we could have shot him in the dark," drawled a cool voice, and an elf taller than the rest, and with an unmistakable air of authority, stepped forward.

"Haldir o Lórien. Henion aníron, boe ammen i dulu lîn. Boe ammen veriad lîn," Aragorn greeted him. (Haldir of Lórien. We desire your help. We need your protection). He noted that Dagnir was smiling brightly at the elf, who was returning it with a slow smirk of his own.

"Returned so soon, have you, Dagnir?" he asked, his voice low. "Was there something here you found you could not do without?"

Dagnir pushed aside the arrow-tip in her face with a finger and sauntered— sauntered! Aragorn thought, amazed— up to him. "Yep," she replied. "Now that's I'm teamed up with Stinky, Horny, and Stubbly back there—" she jerked a thumb at the men of the Fellowship—"I'm running out of that groovy soap I got here last time."

Haldir arched an impossibly elegant brow. "Indeed," was all he said.

"These woods are perilous," Gimli grumbled, unhappy with being called 'Stinky'. "We should go back."

"You have entered the realm of the Lady of the Wood," Haldir replied, sliding his silver gaze from Dagnir to survey each of them in turn. "You cannot go back." He spoke a word up into a tree, and a rope-ladder was dropped down. "You, elf-kin, and you, Halfling," he addressed Legolas and Frodo, "come you up, for we must have words."

Frodo clambered after Legolas' easy ascent, and Sam after him, for they would not be separated even once, and Dagnir followed behind them. Up in the talan, or tree-platform, she surprised Legolas and the Hobbits greatly by greeting both the other elves who stood there with hugs and warm words. 

"My brothers, Rúmil and Orophin, do not know much Westron," Haldir explained when the others did not speak. "We have not seen Halflings for many a year, nor even Men in these dark days, but since you come with another Elf and the Dagnir we are willing to befriend you. How many do you number?"

"We were nine, but are now eight," Legolas replied. 

Haldir's grey gaze flicked over Dagnir, who quirked the corner of her mouth back at him. "And Dagnir is not one of your number?" he asked, voice taking on a silken note that was infinitely more dangerous than his more official one.

"Nine were we who left Imladris as the Fellowship," Legolas told him. "Dagnir," he nodded with formal respectfulness in her direction, "was not counted among us at that point. Elrond was quite clear that we nine were chosen to balance the nine Ringraiths. And," he continued, this time meeting her eyes with his own, "She has proven unforthcoming about her past, and Elrond was reluctant to allow her in the Council." He ignored her muttered slandering of the Lord of Rivendell, for he did not know what a "sexist" was. "Aragorn alone will vouch for her, and I have not navigated my native Mirkwood for the years of my life by trusting blindly on the meagre word of others."

Dagnir surprised them all then by laughing. "Oh, come on," she said, eyes bright. "Admit it, you just didn't like it when I told you I'd kill you and take the ring to Mordor myself if you turned back."

Legolas nodded with great dignity as the other elves and the Hobbits looked on. "That is true as well," he agreed. "Tis rarely a good idea to threaten the lives of those you are allied with."

Dagnir waved away his objection. "I wasn't threatening, I was promising. Just because the rest of you were gonna wuss out doesn't mean I was going to let the whole mission go to pot." She sent a fond glance at Frodo. "Even if it was just gonna be Shorty, here, and myself. I—"

"Yes, yes," Legolas said, his voice a touch sour. "You do what needs to be done. I believe you have mentioned that before."

"That's right," Dagnir told him, arms crossed over her chest as she frowned at him. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"No, I do not," he replied with dignity, his calmness a counterpoint to her rising ire. "Only with your method of expressing it."

"Oh, I should seeth in silence until I explode into the world's biggest snarkfest, just like you?" she demanded. "Yeah, because that looks like it's really working for you."

Haldir, who had been watching them with an expression of absolute amusement on his fair face, raised a hand and silenced them. "So there are now eight of the Fellowship, and Dagnir?" 

Legolas stared a moment longer at Dagnir, who was now resolutely ignoring him, before turning back to the march-warden. "Yes. Four Hobbits, myself, and two Men."

"And the eighth?"

"A dwarf."

Haldir raised a brow at that. "Dwarves are not allowed in the Golden Wood."

Frodo and Sam protested then, declaring Gimli stout-hearted and loyal, and Dagnir raised her voice to praise the son of Glóin as well. Haldir looked to Legolas, who nodded his reluctant agreement, and relented. 

"If you will all swear to him, and he will go blindfolded, then he may pass."

"You and your blindfolds," Dagnir muttered. Haldir fixed a gaze on her that inexplicably caused her to blush to the top of her ears, and she stood hastily. "I'll just… go and explain the sitch to Strider," she said quickly. 

Haldir nodded. "Send up the other Hobbits, for they shall pass the night in this talan with us. You, Legolas, and Dagnir shall both answer for the Men and the Dwarf." 

On the ground once more, Dagnir and Legolas exchanged a sour look before she went to usher Pippin and Merry up the rope ladder to join their kin and the elves, and he spoke with the Men and Gimli.

"She is a… close friend of their captain," he told them. "He bears little love for Dwarves, Gimli, so keep you quiet lest you make him anxious. We shall stay in this talan here," Legolas motioned overhead, "and continue in the morning."

A package thudded to the ground at his feet just as Dagnir joined their little group. She picked it up and waved in the direction of the other talan. "Thanks, Hal!" she called to the treetop.

"Do not call me that," came the reply, annoyance clear in spite of the faint volume. Dagnir only grinned and motioned for her companions to precede her up the ladder. 

"Who will take the first watch?" Boromir asked, dropping his shield with a sigh of relief and reaching for the food Dagnir extracted from the package Haldir had thrown to her.

"I will keep watch all this night, for I need no sleep," Legolas offered. 

"Yay," Dagnir said, dumping the majority of her gear to the floor and wiggling her way between where Aragorn and Boromir sat side by side. "Snuggle up, boys," she directed, resting her head against Aragorn's shoulder. "It's chilly." She pulled her blanket up to her chin and promptly fell asleep as Boromir looked in exasperation over her head at the other Man.

"I am not accustomed to… snuggling," the warrior said with a frown.

"Best grow accustomed, then, " Aragorn replied in his mild way, chewing on his mouthful of lembas before washing it down with cold water from a flask. He tugged half of Dagnir's blanket over himself before tossing half of his over her. "For it does not seem there is any choice, unless you wish to freeze in this tree tonight?" Boromir most certainly did not, and after finishing his meal shifted closer to the small woman, even draping part of his blanket over her. Gimli sat close on his far side and was soon serenading them with his usual snuffly snoring.

Legolas sat as well and busied himself in repairing his arrows and making new ones, elven ears ever alert in the near-total darkness, and so it was no surprise to him hours later when he heard the faint hissing of another elf in the first talan: "_Yrch_!"

He reached out to shake his companions awake but found that Dagnir's eyes were already open, and she silently shook her head 'no'. "Wait," she breathed. Slowly, slowly, the moment of danger passed as the orcs travelled beyind them, none the wiser of their presence above.

"There is something else out there," Legolas said softly, and she nodded.

"It's been following us for a while," Dagnir agreed, "since before Moria, at least." 

"Do we dare to kill it? I would not make a noise and alert the orcs."

Dagnir waited a moment, listening and thinking. "No," she said at last. "Haldir knows it's there, and hasn't done anything. I say we follow his lead." Legolas nodded in turn. "I'll take a watch," she offered then. "You look cold."

He quirked a pale brow at her; even dressed only in  his leggings, silk undertunic, and suede overtunic the winter wind did not bite as deeply into his elven flesh as it did that of Men. "And take you from your warm nest?" he inquired, smiling faintly. "I would not do such a thing."

Dagnir surveyed him a moment, and evidently was satisfied with his subtle overture of truce, for she nodded and curled more tightly against Aragorn's side. "Thanks," she mumbled.

"You are most welcome, Dagnir," he replied, but she was already asleep.

The remainder of the night was uneventful, and all awoke the next morning feeling greatly refreshed. There was some difficulty crossing the Silverlode until two ropes were employed to assist the less nimble-footed of them over its rushing waters, and then came what Dagnir referred to as "tension with a capital ten" when it came time to blindfold Gimli.

As anyone might expect, he didn't take happily to the idea and the discussion soon degenerated to the point where he pulled his axe from his belt and Haldir and Orophin drew their bows, aiming arrows between his bushy eyebrows. 

"A plague on Dwarves and their stiff necks!" Legolas muttered, frowning when Dagnir elbowed him in the side as she pushed past him.

"You're not helping!" she hissed at him as she placed herself between the two factions. "Haldir, quit being rude. Gimli, stop being so stubborn and just deal with it, cuz it's not gonna change."

"We shall all be blindfolded," Aragorn declared, "even Legolas." When that elf protested, he added, "A plague on the stiff necks of Elves." That shut Legolas up rather quickly, and he settled for glowering as Dagnir held out her hand to Haldir, who placed a few strips of white cloth in it.

She sauntered forward and wrapped the linen around Legolas' head. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. "Will you not be bound so also?"

"Nah," Dagnir replied. "There's no point. Lived here for over fifteen years, after all." Then she spun him around, laughing when he teetered a little, and saying something about pinning the trail on the donkey (whatever **that** might mean) and gave him a light push forward. "There ya go, Greenleaf."

They walked many miles that day, Haldir telling them about his beloved Lothlórien, and though it felt strange and vulnerable to sleep, blindfolded yet, on the ground, there was no aura of danger as there had been the night before. Gentle hands woke Legolas the next morning, and even had he not smelled her soap he would have known they belonged to Dagnir when she muttered, "You all look like head-wound victims."

Finally they came to a halt, and were joined by another group of Elves who relayed tidings to Haldir. He allowed them to remove their blindfolds, and all drew in a breath at the sight before them: Cerin Amroth, heart of all elf-kin in Middle-Earth. The Fellowship gazed around them in amazement with the exception of Aragorn, who looked with familiar fondness upon the green hill and double-circle of glorious trees. 

It was only when Haldir stepped closer to Dagnir and inquired softly as to her wellness that the others took note of her; she knelt on the ground, still as a statue, and stared at the centre of the tree-circle. "Even after seventeen years, it's a shock," she murmured, and Haldir came to stand beside her, placing a hand comfortingly on her narrow shoulder.

Frodo blinked. "What happened to you seventeen years ago?" he asked, oddly serious all of a sudden, and the elves around them fell silent at his intensity. "Please, tell me!"

Dagnir turned to him then, and with a face that seemed full of weariness and pain, murmured, "That's when I came to Middle-Earth."

Frodo blinked huge blue eyes. "Came to Middle-Earth?" he ventured. "You were in Valinor?"

She laughed then, a short and sharp sound that echoed in the trees like a chilling wind in the midst of summer. "Um, no," she said flatly. "Where I came from was pretty much the anti-Valinor." She stared at the patch of soft green grass at the tree-ring's centre, and took a deep breath, as if for courage. "Seventeen years ago I died to save the world, and ended up here."

"You… died?" Aragorn asked hesitantly. "And yet live? The only other I have heard to do this is Glorfindel. Were you returned from Mandos' palace as he did?"

Dagnir shook her head 'no', grinning suddenly at Haldir, and the miasma of gloom dissipated as suddenly as it had come. "I died there, and woke up here to find this big jerk looming over me, yapping in some foreign language." 

The elf merely shook his head in exasperation and asked Frodo, "Why is seventeen years important to you, Halfling?"

"Seventeen years ago, I was given the Ring," Frodo replied with a faint tremor in his voice, and Dagnir went very still. 

"Is that so?" she asked, a thread of steel running through her voice, and she stood. Brushing off her knees, she said, "That's… not so coincidental, is it?" Her face was grim, grimmer even than it had been in Moria when Gandalf had died. "I'm going to run ahead, I want to talk to Galadriel as soon as possible."

And Haldir didn't even have time to nod before she took off at a brisk job, seeming not at all burdened by the many pounds of weaponry and gear she carried on her back. 

_daro_ = stop

_yrch_ = orcs


	26. Chapter 4

The Gift of Death, Part 4

"Where is Dagnir?" Boromir asked as he sharpened his sword. "I have not seen her in three days."

Gimli laughed; Legolas frowned. "She and Haldir are… old friends, I believe," Aragorn said haltingly. "I believe they are spending time together."

Gimli laughed harder; Legolas frowned deeper. Aragorn flushed, the pink tinge very apparent now his cheeks were cleanly shaven. 

Boromir just nodded wisely, comprehension settling on his face. "She is a strange woman," he commented, scrutinizing the edge of his blade for nicks. "But sturdy. And a fine warrior. Glad I am to have another swordwielder in our number."

"She'd make a fine dwarf," Gimli agreed. "If only she had a beard…" he added thoughtfully, stroking his own as the others eyed each other, grimacing at the thought.

"She's certainly short enough," Aragorn murmured, grinning when Gimli shot a glare at him.

"Now, I **know** you're not making fun of my height," Dagnir said as she strode into their pavilion, hands on hips. They stared at her in amazement.

She was wearing, not the tunics and trousers and sturdy boots they were used to seeing her in, but a lovely gown in leaf-green whose full sleeves and skirt brushed the ground as she walked. Her hair was not in its customary plait, but hung, wavy and shining, almost to her knees, confined only by two tiny braids at her temples and fastened behind her head. 

"You're wearing a gown," Boromir said stupidly. 

"Yeah, women often do," she said, grinning mockingly at him. "We're actually known for it." She sniffed the air. "I can tell that all of you took baths, and let me tell you, it's made my day." She sniffed again. "Not honeysuckle, but hey, any port in a storm, huh, Horny?"

"Do not call me that," he growled, standing menacingly over her petite form.

But the infuriating woman just smiled, daring him to do his worst. "I can kick your butt whether I'm in a dress or not, you know," she informed him. 

"What have you been doing the past few days, Dagnir?" Aragorn asked, trying to defuse the situation. 

Her smile turned dreamy. "I love elves. Did ya know that, Aragorn?" He quirked a brow, and noticed how Legolas seemed to perk up at her words. "Not just cause they're so pretty, although, yum. But all those years of experience… and the stamina…" Her eyes glazed over a little. "Oh, the stamina."

Gimli coughed a little, looking with great interest at a corner of the pavilion while the Men grinned at each other. Legolas just watched her with narrowed eyes.

"Hm," she murmured at the noise, waking up from her daydream. "I wonder what Haldir's doing right now?" she wondered aloud, more to herself than them. "Think I'll go see…" And she turned to leave.

"Dagnir!" Aragorn halted her with a hand on her arm. She stopped and turned back to him, looking surprised to see him there. "Are you going to journey with us when we continue to Mordor?"

"Oh, yeah!" she said brightly. "Just not enough violence in Lorien for me, and you know, I always say that a day without an evisceration is like a day without sunshine." 

A lovely, musical sound, like a chorus of angelic, heavenly bells, filled the pavilion, and they all turned to see Legolas in his corner, laughing. 

"I just love elves," Dagnir said, grinning happily, and left to find Haldir.

~*~

Buffy hummed as she walked away from the pavilion. Contrary to the impression she'd given the others, she hadn't actually spent the past three days in bed with Lorien's march-warden, though the idea certainly had its merits. She sighed happily and looked around at the sunlight filtering through the mallorn leaves and dappling the ground, enjoying the peace she only felt in Caras Galadhon. 

When she'd leapt through the portal to save Dawn seventeen years earlier, she had landed here, in the forest of Lorien. The first face she'd seen had been that of the Golden Lady herself, Galadriel. The second had been Haldir's stern visage hovering behind the elf-witch— he'd been the one to find her, sprawled on her back in the deepest part of the woods, and had **not** been happy that a human woman had somehow been able to enter 'his' forest without detection. It was only Galadriel's assurances that Buffy hadn't merely 'walked in' that saved his perimeter forces from his severe displeasure.

It had taken the combined forces of Galadriel's gentle persuasion, Celeborn's earnest assurances, and Haldir's sarcastic ridicule to convince her that she was indeed still alive, and that Lothlorien was not, in fact, 'heaven'. The idea actually seemed to amuse the elves greatly.

"But I thought…" Buffy began, biting her lip. "I thought death was my gift. That's what the First Slayer told me. That death was my gift."

"And so it is," Galadriel replied. "It is a gift that will be given to you, once the Valar feel you have earned it. Until that time, no matter how you offer your life for your duty, you will return."

"The Valar? I will return?" Buffy frowned. "Not liking the cryptic, Lady. 'Splainy for the new girl?"

Galadriel smiled. "The Valar are the holy ones, they who create all, and destroy all."

"Oh, the Powers That Be. Got it."

"As for the returning… perhaps that is an explanation for the Valar themselves," the elf-witch said, and turned to lift an ewer of water. "Will you look into my mirror?" She filled a shallow stone basin, which Buffy had thought a bird bath, with the water.

Buffy leaned over it, seeing only water. "Patience," Galadriel murmured from behind her. Buffy took a deep breath and relaxed, letting her eyes lose focus, and slowly an image began to form…

…of a demon. He was very tall, with horns, and an iron ring through his chin. And he was waving at her. "Hi, Buffy! I'm Skip."

"Um, hi, Skip" she replied, bewildered. "Where's Whistler?"

"Busy with another Slayer," Skip replied. "I think you know here… Faith?" Buffy nodded dazedly. "Got lots of questions, I bet," he continued cheerfully, smiling. She nodded again. "Well, let's have them!"

She thought for a second. "Ok, why am I not dead? I thought death was my gift, and I gave it."

Skip sighed. "Oh, you cut right to the heart of the matter, don't you?" He heaved a sigh. "There are other things you need to know first. I prefer to follow a more structured route. If you don't mind?" He motioned to an outcropping of rock behind him, and she nodded.

He sat and pulled one leg up, linking his hands around his knee. "Hm, where to begin? At the beginning, I'd suppose." He drew a deep breath. "In the beginning, there were demons. They were beginning to overrun the earth, so the PTB infused the soul of one person—one girl in all the world—with the extra abilities to fight and defeat these forces of evil..." Seeing her impatience, he relented. "…blah blabbity blah."

"But you knew all that. As the centuries went on, this infusion began to take on a life of its own, so to speak. It began to… alter… the personalities of the girls that acquired it once they were activated as the Slayer. It became its own being, a soul without a body to call its own."

Buffy frowned. "Are you saying that Slayers were basically girls who were possessed?"

"Possessed?" Skip thought about that a moment, then nodded. "In a word, yes." He saw her skepticism. "Before you were activated, did you like to fight?"

"No…" Buffy said slowly, not knowing where he was going with this.

"Did you like to hurt others? Ever entertain the notion of killing things, even bad things?"

"No…"

"Ever have an interest in fighting techniques, war strategies, or other methods of violence?"

"No."

"And after you were activated… you loved to fight. Anticipated it, even. And the idea of killing? Didn't phase you one bit, did it?"

Buffy was starting to look uncomfortable. "No, it didn't bother me," she admitted softly.

"Didn't you say once that while normal girls dreamed of makeup and boys and clothes and dates, you dreamed of beheadings etc.?" She nodded. "There's a reason for that, Buf—may I call you Buf?" He didn't wait for her to agree. "The reason is that the Slayer soul overrode your own peaceable inclinations and turned you into a killing machine."

He paused, seeing the resignation on her face, and knew she'd accepted what he'd told her. "Great! On to the next, then." He lowered his leg, and stood, stretching briefly. "The Slayer soul, after millennia of constant activity, began to weary of its duty. Even a formless entity of destruction gets work burn-out, after all."

"It began to think of ways it could be free of the endless grind of demon-slayage, and finally realized a way. It was your bad luck that she got her bright idea on your watch."

"What do you mean?" Buffy asked, her brow creased in confusion.

"I mean, the Slayer soul finally figured it out. There was never meant to be more than one. 'One girl in all the world' and all that—well, you know the drill."

"That I do," she replied dryly.

"The Slayer soul reasoned that if her host—you—could die, another Slayer would be activated, but then if you weren't permanently dead, and came back, there would be two of you. And if there were two, then the next time you died, would be the last for her—the other Slayer, containing a new Slayer soul, would continue the line, and the original would fade from existence."

"So I really was supposed to die back in sophomore year," Buffy said wonderingly. "The Master really should have killed me, permanently."

Skip nodded. "The Slayer soul refused to move on to Kendra, but stayed with you. This was a cataclysmic event for the Powers, as it had never happened before, and they really didn't know what to do. They couldn't **force** the Slayer soul to the next girl, but they couldn't leave her without the Slayer essence, either. So, they created another one. And because they had to rush, it wasn't as pure as the original. Not as well-put-together."

"That's why Kendra died so quickly," Buffy whispered. "That's why Faith…"

"Why Faith was so easily corrupted, yes," Skip affirmed. He clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing in a rather Giles-like manner. "Now that there were two, all the Slayer soul in you had to do was get you killed, and it would be at peace."

He turned and peered at Buffy, who squirmed a little under his intent gaze. "What it hadn't counted on was your own soul's fierce determination to live, fueled by the love and support of your family and friends. No other Slayer had ever had those things, you see."

"In spite of Drusilla, Spike, Angelus, Faith, Spike, the Judge, Adam, Spike, Dracula, etc. etc. you just wouldn't die. The Slayer soul was getting increasingly desperate, and it began to overpower your fortitude and sense of hope. This last year, with Dawn and your mother, was so much more difficult for you to handle not because **you** were weak, but because the **Slayer soul** was weak. Being a part of you for so long had made it identify with you, and your losses were its losses as well, and it simply couldn't handle all the confusion and loss."

He gazed affectionately at Buffy, who was weeping silently by this point. "The despair you have felt this last year was not just your own, but a combination of yours and the Slayer soul's as well. Do you remember what Spike told you once? That all Slayers have a death wish?"

She nodded, brushing tears off her cheeks.

"He was right. Damned perceptive creature, that vamp," Skip said with a laugh. "The Slayer soul craved oblivion, and when it and the host were both weary to the core, they allowed their opponent to have that one good day. That's what happened to you—both you and it were tired of it all, and both of you decided to end it."

"Now, your situation was different, as I said. You didn't have to jump in that portal. It was not only unnecessary, it was wrong. Very wrong. You **should not **have jumped in that portal. That was Dawn's destiny, not yours. It skewed everything, both in your world and many others." 

"The Slayer soul's pursuit of final, total death went against the purest essence, the absolute reason for the existence of the Slayer itself— everlasting, continuous existence. The Slayer was created to be eternal, and figuring out a way to snuff itself out caused… mayhem."

"That's the only way I can think of to explain it," Skip finished.

"Ok," Buffy said determinedly. "You've given the low-down on the background of this whole mess. What's happening now? Why am I here? With elves? This place is way weird, you know."

Skip grinned at her. "You should see the dimension without shrimp. You'd never think those things would be so important…" Seeing her mutinous expression, he hurried to get past his digression. "The Powers could not allow the destruction of the original Slayer soul, but neither could they allow it to exist in the same dimension as the other one. Having two Slayers was part of the reason Faith went so wrong—your dimension simply couldn't handle the stress of containing two such powerful entities."

"So they brought me here?"

" 'Sent' is more accurate, really… they arranged for the deities of this dimension, the Valar, to take you. The Valar have been concerned for some time about an evil rising in this world, and jumped at the chance to acquire a warrior for good. You're under their purview now, rather than the Powers."

"Why didn't they just put the Slayer soul into someone else?" she asked grumpily. "I'm tired of being hijacked for Slayerly purposes."

He sighed. "I know you are, and the Powers and Valar are sorry for it, but… after being merged for so long, it seems as if you and the Slayer soul are somewhat… inseparable."

Now it was Buffy's turn to sigh. "What if I die here? Will some poor girl in this dimension be saddled with the Slayer soul?"

Skip turned away, seeming uncomfortable. It made her suspicious. "Skip. Tell me."

"No, no other girl will be saddled with the Slayer soul."

"But you said the Powers won't allow the destruction of the Slayer soul…" her voice trailed away as comprehension filled her with horror. "And if it can't be separated from me, then I can't die, can I?" Her hands clenched into fists and she longed to strike Skip, to hit and beat and thrash until he was in pieces on the floor. Instead, she gripped the sides of the stone basin. "I can't die."

He just looked at her, his leathery grey face filled with sorrow. "I'm sorry, Buffy. But no, you can't die. No matter what you do, you will always come back." Then he coughed. "Well, that's not entirely true."

Her head, which had been bent from the weight of the burden of her thoughts, snapped up. "What?"

"Here we get to the gift of death thing," he said, and there was a twinkle in his gleaming red eyes. "When the first slayer told you your gift was death, she wasn't lying. But you got it wrong."

Buffy's eyes were wide in amazement. "What? But I was so sure! It made perfect sense!"

"I can see how you'd think that," Skip agreed. "But no, you were wrong. Death is your gift… a gift the Valar will give you, when they feel you deserve it."

"When I **deserve** it?" Buffy shrieked. "What do I have to do to deserve some peace?" She looked skyward and shook her fist at where she supposed the Valar would be. "Who do I have to blow to get some down-time around here?"

Skip coughed delicately. "Uh, Buffy…" 

Frowning, she lowered her arm and scowled at him. 

"The Powers considered your quest for oblivion to be a sign of weakness, and definitely do **not** appreciate the Slayer soul's scheming to replace itself with another. Not big on being manipulated, are the Powers. Frankly, they don't have much of a sense of humour, either, and talk about cheapskate bosses…" He looked suddenly nervous. "Ahem. So, as I was saying, they are going to make you redeem yourself, and earn your oblivion."

Buffy squinted at him. "So, what you're saying is, until I satisfy their expectations, I'm immortal? I have to be the slayer forever until they decide I'm done, and then I can die? That's how death is my gift?"

Skip nodded. "You got it, girly."

"I don't like this," she said petulantly. "On a scale of one to ten for suckiness, this is like a 45. This sucks worse than a tornado." Buffy heaved a huge sigh. "What do I do now?"

"You were brought to Lothlórien for a reason. These elves can help you. Let them. Galadriel can help you adjust to and accept what you've just learned. Celeborn can counsel you as to what path your life here can take. Haldir can assist you in weapons training—you're still dropping your elbow, you know."

"I know," she grumbled. Giles was always telling her that. Giles… just the thought of her Watcher, her mentor, her friend, brought more tears to her eyes.

"There is much knowledge and wisdom to acquire here, Buffy," Skip said gently. "Do not reject it." He glanced into the distance. "Ah, I have to get going. I won't be seeing you for a while. Take care, k?"

Buffy forced a smirk past her tears. "Like I have a choice."

And then he was gone, and she was blinking at Galadriel in the glade. Wordlessly, the elf slipped her arms around Buffy and drew the girl's head to her shoulder, letting her weep endlessly.


	27. Chapter 5

The Gift of Death, Part 5

Buffy spent over a year with the elves of Lorien. She pestered Celeborn for what she called "career planning"; soaked Galadriel's lovely white gowns with floods of tears of rage, fear, and loneliness; and drove Haldir nearly to distraction with her demands for training in tracking, hunting, and living rough.

She decided, after many days' discussion with them all, to become a Ranger. "It will not be easy," Celeborn warned as they lounged in his study, high in a mallorn, one warm summer day. He sat at his desk, elbow propped on its surface as he steepled his fingers under his chin in his characteristic 'I'm being very serious, here' pose. "It is a tight brotherhood, and you are female. You will have to force them to accept you."

"I can do that," she said confidently from her slouched position on his squashy divan. "It'll take a lot more than a bunch of sexist pigs to keep me out of their tight little club." Celeborn blinked in confusion—what did pigs have to do with anything? They were known to be very smart and clean animals—but Buffy just grinned and climbed out of the tree.

And she did get them to accept her. It took another three years and many ass-kickings courtesy of the Slayer, or Dagnir as she came to be known, for the Rangers to accept that this tiny female was just as good as they—better, even, if they were honest enough to admit it—but eventually they did.

And so she set out on her new life. Being a Ranger agreed with her—it was solitary enough to meet her need for seclusion, and just social enough for her to not become a total hermit. She got to travel the length and breadth of Middle-Earth, and marveled at how different it was from her own dimension. As the years passed, however, her curiosity waned and she became somewhat blasé about it, just as she had with being a Slayer back in Sunnydale. Galadriel expressed concern over it during one of Buffy's annual visits to Lorien.

"How do elves deal with it?" Buffy asked one bright morning in Galadriel's garden. They sipped mint tea and basked in the sunlight, and Buffy enjoyed being able to be clean and dress like a girl for once. "How do you keep from going stark raving mad at the idea of living for thousands of years? How do you handle the knowledge that there will be nothing new, or exciting, or fresh? Cause I'm really getting bored."

Galadriel smiled. "Elves are not as easily bored as humans, I think," she said in her melodic voice. "We also have other things in our lives besides travel and fighting the forces of darkness. We also have art, music, literature, poetry." She looked meaningfully in the direction of Haldir's flet. "We also have love."

Buffy sighed and studied her hands. They'd been lotioned and massaged; the nails filed and buffed, they shone like mirrors. It was so rare to live in a civilized manner any more…if she'd stayed in Caras Galadhon, she'd never have to do without cleanliness and pretty clothes again. But if she stayed in Caras Galadhon, there'd **really** be nothing for her to do—fighting the baddies of Lorien was Haldir's job, not hers. 

She knew Haldir had a 'thing' for her, but she doubted it was love—merely an appreciation for a kindred spirit. She was a warrior, like him, and they shared a toughness that could be off-putting to others. They'd become good friends, and Buffy would be lying if she said he wasn't attractive to her, but… "How about 'like'?" she asked the elf-witch weakly. "I don't think I'm up for 'love' just yet. Maybe in a decade or two."

Galadriel smiled, and patted her hand. "There are many kinds of love, Buffy. A life closed off to all of them is not a life, but mere existence."

Inspired by Galadriel's words almost as much as Haldir's sudden but breathtaking kiss, that visit, Buffy began a physical relationship with him. He was a wonderful lover, easily able to keep up with her Slayer strength and stamina. In spite of her fears that having sex with him would destroy their friendship, she was delighted to find that it was enhanced instead. He never demanded more of her, like her heart, than she was willing to give, and for that even more than his friendship of the past years, she was profoundly grateful.

Buffy had been a Ranger for three years when she met another member of the brotherhood—he called himself Strider, but there was something different about him. He wasn't an average Man, and learning he'd been raised by Elves wasn't the only explanation for it, but she didn't press him to reveal himself any more than she wanted him to press her. She'd settled into a comfortably remote persona, after all, and enjoying having her business be her own. 

Strider proved to be a fine companion on those occasions they'd worked together, respectful of her and possessing an even temper and decent sense of humour. She wished she were able to see more of him, but with her primary territory so far out of the way, and not terribly fun to visit, it wasn't much of a surprise.

No one was more surprised than she to find herself headquartering in the kingdom of Lindon, far to the north and west. It was damned cold and snowy there for almost nine months of the year, and hadn't she been the classic California girl? Beach bunny no longer—her turf was the sea route around Forlinden from the Bay of Forochel to the city of the Grey Havens, from where the elves tended to sail west to Valinor. Many of the elves sought her out on the recommendation of the Lórien folk who had befriended her, often bringing messages from Celeborn and Haldir. 

She had no need for messages from Galadriel, who could talk into Buffy's mind at will. This was something she wasn't entirely thrilled with, but at least she'd gotten used to it over the years. She'd just wrapped up dealings with a particularly persistent ice wraith in Forlond south of the Ered Luin, and had fallen gratefully asleep beside Gordo in a not-too-snowy grotto at the mouth of the River Lhûn when Galadriel's voice floated into her mind.

"Buffy, you are needed."

"Aren't I always?" Buffy groaned, turning over in her bedroll. "Can't you ever decide to have a chat when I'm actually awake?"

"Buffy," Galadriel said with gentle reproach. "You must go to Rivendell; you must go now. The Fellowship will break without you."

"Fellow-huh?" Buffy asked blearily, pushing hair out of her face. The only thing about herself that **had** changed since arriving in Middle-Earth, she had never cut it, and it often wormed its way out of its plait while she slept. 

"Go to Rivendell," was all Galadriel said, and was gone.

Buffy sighed, and threw back the covers of her bedroll to saddle Gordo again.

And so it was that she came to be at Rivendell, place of the Last Homely Home, during the council called by Elrond for the purpose of determining the fate of the One Ring. Buffy knew she had to be a part of the mission, even as she knew that there was no way in hell that any of the males would agree to it. Hadn't it taken her years to gain the grudging acceptance of the Rangers? And they were mere Men, mortal and short-lived. Elves and dwarves, with their longer lifespans and thus longer prejudices, would be damned near impossible to win over.

So Buffy came, saw, and decided to conquer in her own way. "Just like a female," she could almost hear Haldir say in his mocking drawl when she set out a quarter-day behind the Fellowship as they travelled south toward Mordor. If it weren't for Strider and the elf, she had no doubt they'd have died twelve times already—the Man from Gondor was a fine fighter, but in spite of his blustering about his land not needing a king he was not equipped to lead this interspecies group through rough land. The dwarf was merely overconfident, and the Hobbits were a cheery bunch but hopelessly inadequate to the task of keeping themselves alive in the wilderness. 

She knew that at least the elf would know she was following them, and probably Strider as well, but they made no effort to confront her, and she was content to simply trail behind until the snows of Caradhras slowed them to such a pace that she caught up with them almost against her will.

Once part of their group, however, she found herself strangely drawn to them. Strider, of course, she knew and liked, and the Hobbits were oddly endearing. The dwarf reminded her of Xander with his clumsy humour, and the Man was rather like Riley, big and handsome, but without the puppy-dog eyes pleading with her to love him.

The elf, however… many were the times she'd caught him watching her, but the usual elfin impassivity of his face prevented her from knowing his thoughts. She knew that her way of doing or saying certain things surprised him sometimes, and that he didn't like being surprised. 

Neither did she, for that matter, and resolved to be wary of him. One thing she'd learned from her time in Lothlorien was that elves were much like cats—graceful, smart, and deadly. They were not above indulging in cruelty for the enjoyment of it, and while they held to high ideals for the most part, could be ruthless in pursuing their own goals. Yes, she would watch Legolas of Mirkwood carefully.

Now she was back in Caras Galadon, the city she loved above all others in Middle-Earth, with the closest things she had to friends, and she was clean and well-fed and warm. It didn't happen often, and she reveled in it. Instead of finding Haldir for some 'naughty time' as she had implied to Strider—Aragorn, she reminded herself, now that he had been revealed as Isildur's heir—she went to Galadriel, who had requested she come to the mirror glade for a chat.

When Buffy had arrived at rapid pace after leaving the rest of the party at Cerin Amroth, she had been warmly received by her old friends, but both Galadriel and Celeborn had refused to shed any light on the intriguing fact that two events of significance had occurred seventeen years ago: Frodo's acquisition of the Ring, and Buffy's advent to Middle-Earth. 

"The time has not yet come to learn more," Galadriel had told her with regret. "Go now and rest, eat, bathe. I will call you when the Valar deem it time to reveal all."

Buffy had obediently rested, eaten, and bathed. She and Haldir had had a happy reunion of their own in his talan. She'd dug out her girly clothes from the trunk in his bedroom, and now felt as 'at home' as a person from another dimension possibly could. So easy it was to fall back into her usual behaviours when in Lothlórien that it had taken a few days to remember to visit the rest of the Fellowship in their pavilion on the ground.

It had not gone unnoticed by her how Legolas had seemed displeased at the mention of Haldir, nor had she missed the thrill of pleasure skating up her back at the sound of his laughter. He was quite possibly the best-looking creature she'd ever laid eyes upon, and it was much, much easier to deal with him when he was being cranky to her. 

_Note to self: keep Legolas grouchy in order to maintain grip on hormones,_ Buffy thought as she made her way to Galadriel's private glade.

The elf-witch greeted her with a warm smile, and beckoned her to sit. "It is time for you to look in the mirror again," she told Buffy. "Prepare yourself for news of great importance."

Skip hadn't wanted to talk to her since that first time seventeen years ago… immediately going on red alert, she tried to work out of Galadriel what was going on, but her friend would not say a word in elaboration, but merely smiled in that mysterious, maddening way she had. Buffy breathed deeply, and went to the basin. The water was still and dark, and she gazed into it until her neck became sore. "It's not working," she complained. 

Galadriel tsked and came to stand behind Buffy, her surprisingly strong hands kneading the tension from the other woman's neck. "Try again."

Buffy bent over the water again, and this time saw Skip almost immediately.

"Hi!" he said, waving cheerily. "Been a good long time, hasn't it?"

"What can I do for you, Skip?" she asked, a wry smile on her lips.

"Oh, the question is really, what can **I** do for **you**, Slayer," he replied, and her heart leapt.

"Do you mean I can receive my gift now?" she asked eagerly. In spite of having a successful career-- if you could call being a Ranger a career—and a decent relationship of warm friendship and fabulous sex with Haldir, and making a few friends here and there, and even after so many years, the lure of the nothingness of death tempted her sorely. She was just so damned tired some of the time, and the loneliness for her friends and Dawn ached in her very bones.

"No, no, no, nothing like that," he replied hastily, waving his leathery grey hands in agitation. "Sorry to get your hopes up," he added when her shoulders slumped. "You still have to finish this ring-to-Mordor thing, and who knows what else the Valar will want after that. No," he continued, "they've decided that you deserve a little reward after your years of long-suffering duty to them."

"What, like a watch? For twenty-five years of faithful service?" She rolled her eyes and snorted derisively. "I'm underwhelmed."

"No need to get snippy, madam," Skip sniffed. "No, what they had in mind was not a watch, but… a key."

Buffy looked confused for a moment, and then her eyes flew wide. "A key? You don't mean… not Dawn?"

Skip beamed at her. "You're smart. I like that in a human. Yes, I mean Dawn. The Valar are going to give you the opportunity to bring Dawn to you in Middle-Earth. If you both agree to it."

Buffy gripped the sides of the basin to keep from falling over when her knees threatened to give way. "But why?"

Skip shrugged. "You weren't supposed to be separated, and you're both stagnating where you are. You've plateaued, aren't progressing from here. They feel that, together again, you'll be able to continue your destined journeys."

Buffy just gaped at him as he clapped his hands once, then rubbed them together. "So!" he announced. "You ready to talk to her?"

She blinked. "Talk? To Dawn? Talk to Dawn?" He nodded. "Of course! Yeah! Yes!"

He nodded again, and with a flash, instead of him, she could see Dawn in the mirror. Seated on the side of a bed, she was removing a pair of shoes and dumping them carelessly on the floor. Buffy smiled to see that some things never changed.

For a long moment, she simply gazed at her sister/daughter, taking in the myriad ways she was different now, and the many ways she was still the same. Instead of a gangly teenager, Dawn was tall and slim, with long dark hair that fell down her back. The roundness of youth had left Dawn's face, replaced by the smooth angles of womanhood, and Buffy realized with a shock that her sister was over thirty years old now. Her eyes were the same, though—those ageless blue eyes that had seen too much ugliness, lived through too much pain.

"Dawn?" she whispered. "Dawnie?"

Dawn's head flew up, and she glanced around the room wildly. "Buffy?" she said, her voice low, hopeful but wary.

"Dawnie," Buffy repeated. "It's me. It's Buffy."

"Buffy?" Dawn stood up and darted around the room, hands out, searching for her sister's presence. "Are you here?"

"I'm in your mind, Dawn. Please, don't be scared."

"I'm not scared, Buffy," Dawn told her, tears coursing down her face. "Where are you?"

"I'm in another dimension. I have something to tell you."

"I'm listening!" Dawn's voice was becoming shrill, panicked. "I'm listening, Buffy!"

"Settle down, Dawnie. Relax," she said, starting to worry. 

"Ok," Dawn said, sitting limply on the edge of her bed and breathing deeply, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as tears poured unchecked to drip off her chin. "I'm ok now."

"Dawn, I—" But her words were cut off by Dawn's gasp when the door flung open.

"What's wrong, Niblet?" demanded Spike, and Buffy's eyes bugged out.

"I'm ok, Spike!" Dawn was saying, her face almost glowing with joy. "I'm talking to Buffy."

The vampire's face somehow paled even more. "Bit?" he asked carefully. "What have you been doing?"

"Nothing, Spike!" she snapped with familiar impatience, and Buffy had to smile. "I was just sitting here, and Buffy started to speak to me." She stood and went to him, taking his hands in hers. "She's ok, Spike. She's alive."

Spike stared into her eyes, searching for… something, sanity perhaps. Seeming to find it, he finally nodded. "Alive?" he asked, his voice trembling, and Buffy's eyes filled. After all these years, the vampire still cared for her. It was humbling, and not a little touching. "Where is she? Is she coming back?"

"I don't know, you came in before I could get that out of her," Dawn replied. "Let me ask her."

"I heard him, Dawn," Buffy told her. "I can see both of you."

"She can see us!" Dawn exclaimed, and waved before eeping in horror. "I look terrible!"

Buffy and Spike both laughed. "You look beautiful, Dawn, just like always. And Spike's looking well, too," she added. "I can't believe he's wearing a colour that's not black."

Dawn grinned at him. "She likes your new wardrobe," she told him, and he grinned back.

"Variety's the spice of life, ain't it, bit?" he grinned, plucking at the forest-green shirt he wore with nicotine-stained fingers. "So, Slayer, where've you been?"

"In another dimension," she told Dawn, who relayed the information to Spike. "Still killing the bad guys."

"Some things never change," he muttered, and Buffy got the impression he wasn't only talking about her. "It's been seventeen years, pet. Why are you back now?"

"Well," she began slowly, "I'm not sure. The PTB's have decided that I deserve a reward for being a good little Slayer for so long."

"What, like a gold watch?"

She laughed. "That's what I said. But no. They said I could have a key, instead." And she fell silent, letting them figure that out for themselves.

"Me?" Dawn said finally. "They said you could have… me? What did they mean by that?"

"I think they mean that you can come here, to be with me." Buffy took a deep breath. "I'm on a big quest thing with a bunch of guys, and we have to destroy this ring o' evil before the Big Bad can use it to nuke the world. You know, the usual."

"And Dawn being with you will help, somehow?" Spike's skepticism was palpable even over their tenuous connection via the mirror. 

Dawn slapped his arm. "Hey! I'm not totally useless, you know!"

He rubbed his arm. "I know, Bit, I know," he said, smiling affectionately at her. 

She gazed at his face a long moment, and then asked Buffy, "Can Spike come too?"

"I… don't think so, Dawnie. I think it has something to do with the blood, with the monks making you out of me. We were never supposed to be separated, he said."

"He?"

"Skip. He's the Powers' spokesmodel."

Dawn grimaced. "So, I have to leave everything behind and come to you?"

"No! No, Dawnie. You don't **have** to do anything. It's just an offer. If you don't want to come, you don't have to."

"Oh." Dawn chewed on her lip. "Can I think about it? Not that I don't want to be with you, because, hell yeah! I do! But… it's a big change."

"I know." 

"Buffy," Galadriel said in her head, "You will talk to her one sen'night from today, at the same time. Tell her this. One sen'night from today, she must make her decision known to you. If she accepts, she will be brought here. If she declines, you will say goodbye, forever."

Buffy relayed the message to her sister, and couldn't resist adding, "If you come here, Dawnie, you'll get to meet elves and dwarves and Hobbits and huge eagles and dragons. And the elves are really hot."

Dawn squealed in excitement, just like she had when she was little. "Ok, Buffy, I'll think about it." Then she sobered. "Do you have to go now?"

"I think so, yeah," Buffy replied with reluctance. "Spike's still a good guy, huh?"

"Yeah, he is," Dawn replied softly. "His chip's been out for eight years, and he's still here, fighting the good fight." Spike snorted beside her, folding his arms grumpily over his chest.

"Tell him I'm proud of him, will you, Dawnie?" Buffy asked. "I have to go now. I love you. I love you both." She had just enough time to see Dawn relate the message to Spike, and his eyes fill with tears, before the mirror was once more just a dark basin of water. 

"Thank you," Buffy whispered to Galadriel, surprising the elleth by flinging her arms around her and squeezing tightly. "Thank you! Thank you!"

"It was not me, child," Galadriel protested, gasping. "It is the Valar to whom you should show deference and gratitude."

Buffy looked up and waved energetically. "Thanks, you bastards!"


	28. Chapter 6

Author's Note: I'm going by fanon here in having Buffy be a nickname for Elizabeth.

The Gift of Death, Part 6

A week later, Buffy stood in the glade surrounded by the Fellowship and a goodly number of Lorien elves. She'd been so excited at the prospect of her sister joining her in Middle-Earth that she had hardly stopped hugging whoever she could get her arms on—it was only when she'd nearly cracked Boromir's ribs that she started restraining herself.

"Is it time yet?" she asked for the tenth time. 

Galadriel patiently replied, "Not yet, Dagnir."

Buffy clasped her hands tightly before her. She'd worn her nicest gown, of coral-pink silk with silver embroidery, and her hair had been woven with tiny white flowers. Haldir's admiring expression told her she looked very nice indeed, but her palms were still very nervous and sweaty.

She refrained from wiping them on her skirts. "Is it time yet?" she asked again, her voice piteous, and Galadriel sighed. 

"Yes, I suppose now is as good a time as any."

Buffy bent so eagerly over the mirror that some of the flowers in her hair fell into the water.

"Careful," Haldir warned, plucking the blossoms out. "You will drown yourself." 

Buffy let her vision fuzz and immediately saw Skip in his usual place. 

"Hi, Buffy!" he called. "Today's the big day, huh?"

"Dawn, please," she said crisply, and he laughed, waving his hand, and then there was Dawn. She stood in the lobby of the Hyperion in Los Angeles, and she was surrounded by people. There was Spike, and… Buffy stuffed her fist into her mouth to stifle a sob.

They were **all** there—Dawn, Spike, Giles, Xander, Willow, Anya, Tara, Cordelia, Wesley. Even Oz was there. Also present were some people that Buffy didn't recognize, but she figured it was normal for others to join up over the years. There was one person noticeably absent, however…

"Dawn?" she asked, and was shocked to see the whole group jump. "You can all hear me?"

"Buffy!" Dawn exclaimed. "I can hear you, can the rest of you?" she asked the others. They all nodded dumbly.

 "Oh, God…. guys, it's so good to see you again. I've missed you so much. Giles, Xander, Willow…"  Buffy burst into tears. "You all look… so old!"

They laughed. Willow was weeping openly, and Xander's and Giles' eyes were suspiciously bright. "What, and you haven't aged a day?" Xander asked with fake belligerence. 

"Actually, no," Buffy told him. "I'm still the perky-bosomed twenty-year-old you knew back when."

"Not fair!" declared Cordelia, clapping her hands to her chest. "I'll have you know that these things fed three children. These were **working** breasts!"

They all laughed, and Buffy squinted harder at them, wondering if she was simply not seeing him. Nope, he wasn't there. "Guys, where's Angel?"

The smiles melted from their faces, and they all glanced at each other before Dawn closed her eyes for a long moment. Opening them again, she said quietly, "Buffy, Angel… is dead. Permanently dead."

"No," Buffy whispered. "That can't be. **He** can't be." She sagged, and Haldir wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her up. "He can't be dead."

"I'm sorry, Buffy," Dawn said. "We all are."

"What happened?"

"Um…" Dawn hedged before continuing, "How about I tell you when I get there?"

"You're coming? You're really coming?" demanded Buffy, grateful Haldir was there to keep her upright as she felt her legs weaken once more, this time in relief. "Oh, God, I was so scared you wouldn't."

"You must hurry now," said Galadriel in Buffy's head.

"We don't have much time, Dawnie," she said to her sister. "But… oh, guys, I love you all so much, I'm so proud of you. Don't worry about us, we'll be fine. There are friends here, good people. I'm safe no matter what, and I'll keep Dawn safe. I promise."

Dawn hugged and kissed everyone. "What happens now, Buffy?" Dawn's voice was tremulous, scared but excited. 

"Tell her to draw some blood from her hand. The demon and I will do the rest," Galadriel instructed, and Buffy relayed the message. Dawn took the knife Spike handed her and swiftly drew it over her palm. As the crimson fluid coursed from her, the air where it fell began to glow green. At the same time, a pinpoint of green appeared in the glade, and expanded. In its centre grew a flat area that shimmered, and slowly Buffy was able to look into it and see her friends as if looking through a door, for that is what it was. 

"Buffy, you look beautiful," Willow said tearfully. Her red hair was cut in a short, angular bob and she was dressed, as usual, in a funky outfit of weird colours, improbably paired together. Beside curvacious, womanly Tara and the perennially unkempt Oz, she looked avante-guarde and not a little exotic.

Cordelia smirked. "Who's the hottie with his arm around you?"

Buffy laughed and looked back at Haldir. "This is Haldir, he's an old friend."

Spike quirked a brow, but said nothing while the women murmured in appreciation. Haldir merely sighed. Buffy reached her hand through the portal, and immediately the others rushed to her, touching her hand, assuring themselves she really was there, was really still alive. 

"This is extraordinary," Giles murmured, his grasp warm on her cold fingers. "I never thought to see you again, I thought you were gone, that it was over for you, that you'd found peace."

"It's never really over, Giles," Buffy replied, weeping openly. "Death is never the end." She turned to venture a shy smile at Galadriel and Celeborn. "Peace comes in all sorts of forms, I'm learning."

"Dawn told us there were elves, Buffster," Xander said. His dark eyes were as dark and loving as ever as they roamed eagerly over her. "I'm guessing these aren't the ones who live in trees and bake cookies?"

"They live in trees, Xander, but not really big with the cookie-making, no," she replied with a shaky laugh. 

"Never mind the cookies," Anya said briskly. "How are they with the sex?" She peered past Buffy to Haldir. "That one looks like he knows how to give a woman many orgasms."

Around Buffy, the faint murmurings of all who watched ended abruptly, replaced with the dead silence of a few dozen elves wondering, _Did she actually say that?_

Buffy flushed bright pink and tried to stammer some sort of response but Haldir merely smirked through the portal at Anya and bowed. "I have yet to receive a complaint," he told her, voice pitched an octave lower than usual, then smirked again when she swallowed hard, eyes wide.

"Xander, I've thought of a new sex-game we can play. You'll need a long blond wig, and some Spock ears…" Anya's voice trailed off as she dragged her husband away, much to the amusement of the others ranged around them. 

"Demon-girl still knows how to suck all the air out of a room," Spike commented dryly, sharing an amused glance with Giles. Buffy thought it looked weird to see the two men so companionable, but reminded herself that they **had** had almost twenty years to get past their differences. 

Galadriel shot Buffy a 'hurry up' sort of look then. "Are you ready, Dawnie?" Her sister nodded and picked up the dufflebag on the ground. "Then step through."

Dawn lifted a foot, then dropped it with a cry and turned back to Spike, flinging herself in his arms. "I love you," she sobbed. "I love you so much, Spike. You're my brother, you'll always be my best friend. Never forget me, please?"

"Oh, Niblet," he rasped, crying shamelessly. "How could I ever forget a Summers woman?" He turned her loose. "Now, get going."

She turned and picked up the dufflebag again, then squared her shoulders and stepped into the portal without looking back. She seemed to hang there for a moment, frozen, and then the portal convulsed and spat her forcibly from it, flinging her to her hands and knees on the leafy floor by the mirror. With a flash of green light, it shrunk and disappeared in a split second.

"Buffy?" she asked, lifting her head and squinting through the tangle of hair over her face.

Buffy dropped to her knees. "Yeah, Dawnie, I'm here," she whispered, and pulled her sister into her arms. Dazedly, Dawn hugged Buffy back, and they rocked back and forth, weeping.

When they calmed down a bit, Dawn sat back on her heels and looked around. "Wow, elves!" she exclaimed, eyes huge as she looked around. "Elves and really big trees."

"I **told** you there were elves," Buffy said, very much the big sister again. "Didn't you believe me?"

"I thought you were just saying that to make me come to you," Dawn replied, standing and brushing dirt from her knees. "That's a great dress. And your hair! You're like Crystal Gayle, Slayer-style."

Haldir rolled his eyes. "You did not tell me your sister was as silly as you are, Slayer," he rumbled, arms crossed over his chest.

Dawn took a very hard look at him for a long moment, then lifted her nose into the air and turned pointedly away to face Buffy. "So, what do we do now? Do we leave on this quest thingy right away, or what?"

"Nah, we're staying here a few weeks to recuperate." Buffy began to lead Dawn out of the glade, arms around each others' waists. "It's been a hard trip so far, someone already died." Their voices faded in the distance, and the Fellowship glanced at each other with no small amount of trepidation. 

"She's pretty," declared Merry. "Too tall, and far too skinny, but I daresay a few weeks of eating like a Hobbit would fill her out well enough."

"Two women," Boromir said under his breath. "Twice as much to go wrong. This is a disaster."

"I like the new one," Gimli announced to no one in particular. "She knows just how to put an elf in his place."

"A lesson which continues to elude you, Master Dwarf," taunted Legolas, leaping nimbly out of the way of Gimli's halfhearted swipe of retribution.

~*~

The remainder of the Fellowship's time in Caras Galadon was spent training Dawn. She was already fairly competent with sword and bow, thanks to Spike's insistence she be able to defend herself, but she was truly good with a staff and, to all their surprise, spears. 

"I prefer a pike, myself," Dawn said one afternoon, panting as she stuffed her hair into a messy bun. "You can do hella damage with a nice pike."

"You will likely not have the luxury of room in which to use a pike," Haldir said sourly from his end of the practice area.

"What's with tall, blond, and grouchy?" Dawn asked no one in particular, and sipped some cool water. "Is it just me, or does he hate everyone?"

"It is just you," Haldir told her with a smirk. "I am ever lovable and sweet with others."

She grinned cheekily. "Somehow I doubt that, Oscar." He frowned at the nickname, but she did not elaborate. "So, orcs. What are they like?"

"They are big and stupid, very pig-like," Boromir said, while Gimli offered, "They have a smell to make your eyelids roll up."

"They're like Gamorrean demons," Buffy told her sister. "But without the tusks." 

Dawn nodded wisely, and then clapped her hands excitedly. "Oh! Speaking of pigs!" she cried, and buried her head in her ever-present dufflebag, rummaging through it.

"**Were** we speaking of pigs?" Legolas quietly asked Aragorn, who shrugged.

Dawn emerged from the bag, a small fuzzy object in her hand.

"Gordo!" shrieked Buffy, reaching for it. "You brought Mr. Gordo!" She hugged Dawn tightly.

"Is that the original Gordo?" Pippin asked.

"Yep!" Buffy fondly petted the stuffed pig's head. Dawn had brought a veritable treasure-trove of things with her from California: long letters from all their friends, photos from the intervening years, and—best of all—a flat screen into which glittering discs were inserted. Home movies could be watched on the screen, and it was there that the Scoobies and friends spoke their messages to their departed Slayer.

Giles, now in his sixties, had returned to England and had taken over the Watchers' Council. They'd had their hands full keeping Faith on the straight and narrow, but by the time she'd finally been killed, she'd been well on her way to redeeming her trespasses. It seemed the second Slayer soul was finally getting up to snuff.

Xander and Anya had married and had four children, one of whom was named Elizabeth. Buffy cried when they told her that. They had moved out of the Hellmouth area and settled in Connecticut, where Xander had his own construction company and Anya was a day-trader on the NYSE.

Willow and Tara had broken up but remainedl close friends as well as business partners, running the Magic Box together. Oz had returned years before and he and Willow had gotten married and adopted two disabled children. They all of them looked incredibly happy.

Cordelia had married the tall black guy Buffy had seen in the Hyperion—Charles Gunn-- and they had three beautiful, mocha-skinned children. She was still Queen C, but a much kinder and gentler one. Wesley had hooked up with the fragile-looking woman named Fred, and while they didn't have children, they had happy lives filled with research and exploration.

Spike had stuck by Dawn's side, just as he had promised all those years ago, a fact which touched Buffy deeply. The chip had stopped working about ten years previous and began to damage his brain functions, so they'd found someone to remove it. Everyone but Dawn had been sure he'd revert to type, but almost a decade of being a white hat had changed the vampire forever, it seemed.

As for Angel… "He just wasn't **right** after you died, Buffy," Spike told the camera. "He didn't care about living any more, got sloppy. One night, he just… gave up. Let a Polgara get him." He slammed his fist on his knee, stared fiercely at the floor. "Stupid ponce."

"He's at peace now, Buffy," Spike continued at last. "At peace." He smiled sadly. "Some people get all the luck, huh, pet?" She could well relate to his frustration.

Buffy watched the recordings over and over until the batteries ran out, then tossed them into the river. They were her past, and she'd finally been able to say goodbye to them, and they to her. Her life was here in Middle-Earth now, however many eons it would last.

Dawn had enjoyed an interesting life, and she regaled all of them with tales of her exploits. She hadn't bothered to attend college, but split her time between Sunnydale, Los Angeles, and England to become a world-class researcher. She'd married in her twenties, but it had been a disastrous union and it had taken all of her and Giles' skills of persuasion to keep Spike from killing Dawn's ex.

Dawn didn't seem to like the elves much. She'd spent too much time with Spike and Cordelia, she said, and was used to honesty and frankness. Elves were too mysterious and hidden. 

"I know," Buffy replied. "That's why I like them." She herself was a private person, and the elves respected that need to keep one's self hidden.

Gimli, to no one's surprise, thoroughly enjoyed Dawn's presence (especially when she was discussing how she didn't trust elves). "Tis a shame you're not petite like your sister," he would sigh. "She's almost the perfect she-dwarf. If only she had a beard…"

Dawn giggled. "It's the classic tragic story-- soulmates, thwarted by lack of facial hair. Shakespeare couldn't write it better."

Her aversion to elves was ironic, since she was tall, slim, and graceful enough to be one herself. "A little plastic surgery on the ears, and no one would ever know you weren't born in Imladris," Buffy teased her sister. "You could be Elrond's secret daughter."

"Um, how about no?" Dawn retorted. "Then I might have to be related to Oscar, and I think his bad 'tude might be hereditary." She persisted in calling Haldir by that nickname, and yet refused to tell him what it meant. Needless to say, they didn't get on very well.

She **loved** the Hobbits, and amused them greatly by cuddling them like children. "Dawn, you **do** realize they're all older than you, right?" Buffy asked worriedly one day.

"As long as they don't get any funny ideas, I don't care if they're a hundred," Dawn declared, ruffling Merry's hair as they walked down a path between the mellyrn, Frodo on her other side, clasping her hand.

That left Legolas and Boromir. The elf kept his distance from her as he did everyone else, and Dawn didn't complain, although she did admit to Buffy that he was "the hottest thing she'd ever seen in her entire life", and that included that one time she'd almost fallen into a glassblowing oven in a factory that housed a nest of vamps. Then she'd laughed slyly when Buffy had agreed fervently.

Boromir… Buffy resolved to watch the two of them closely. More than once she'd caught her sister eyeing the handsome Man, and you didn't have to be Galadriel to know what was going through Boromir's mind when he looked at Dawn, his gaze increasingly possessive. His reaction rather surprised her, because he'd always given her the impression of being more concerned with matters of warfare than of romance, but, she reflected with a sigh, when something was meant to be there was no avoiding it. 

Finally, the day arrived for the Fellowship to depart. "Not a moment too soon," Dawn grumbled. "I was getting tired of listening to you and Oscar grunt all night long—"

Buffy clapped her hand over her sister's mouth, forcing a laugh. "Ha ha ha," she said as the woman rolled her eyes over the hand. "Such a kidder, Dawn is." She fooled no one.

All received gifts— Aragorn a sheath for his sword, and belts for Boromir, Merry and Pippin. There was a box of earth and some rope for Sam, a gorgeous new bow for Legolas, and a few strands of Galadriel's hair for Gimli. Frodo received a flask of starlight, and there was a fine pike for Dawn, who squealed with joy and did a happy dance when Celeborn handed it to her.

Buffy hugged Galadriel tightly. "You've given me the best gift of all," she whispered, her forehead against that of the elf-witch. "I will remember it always."

"It was my great pleasure, _meldisamin_," Galadriel replied, touching Buffy's cheek gently. "_Namarië_."

_meldisamin_ = my friend (fem)

_namarië_ = farewell


	29. Chapter 7

The Gift of Death, Part 7

"Youch," Dawn complained after five days of paddling down the Anduin. "I'm gonna have shoulders like Boromir if this rowing keeps up." She glanced anxiously at him, hoping her comment would lighten his mood. He'd seemed greatly troubled throughout his stay in Lothlórien, and had not once been able to meet Galadriel's probing gaze. Buffy had commented on it, admitting that she'd worried about him ever since something had happened on Caradhras.

Dawn's attempt met with a measure of success; Boromir looked pleased that the width of his shoulders had been commented upon, and flexed them showily. The others just looked amused and slightly relieved, and continued paddling.

That night Aragorn decided it would be safe enough to make camp on shore, instead of sleeping in the boats, and it was with great relief that they dragged out bedrolls and made a fire. 

"We shall have hot food!" exclaimed Pippin, "Sausages and crispy potatoes!" Sam immediately set to cooking while the other Hobbits went about making the little clearing as homey as possible. 

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Dawn?" asked Buffy.

"Bathtime?" Dawn asked in return, eyes lighting up with anticipation.

"Bathtime," Buffy confirmed, and they took soap, drying linens, and a change of clothes back to the riverside. "It wouldn't kill the rest of you to have a nice bath, either," she reminded the men, giving them the gimlet eye. "I have enough soap for everyone."

"Perhaps later," they all demurred, and glowering, Buffy stomped away.

"So, Man of Gondor, do you plan on advancing upon the Lady Dawn anytime soon?" Aragorn asked at some point, sliding his gaze toward Boromir, who promptly blushed bright red.

"Am I so transparent?" admitted the Gondorian with a smile that had become rare since entering the Golden Wood.

Legolas laughed his silvery laugh. "You are just impressed by any pretty woman who can walk and talk."

"She doesn't have to talk," replied Boromir earnestly. "In fact, life is easier when she does not."

"If you want life to be easy, best not to have a woman in it at all," Gimli said practically. "Why do you think I am yet unwed? Gimli son of Gloin is a fine catch, a fine catch! And still do I escape those bonds." He smiled. "Many are there who would have me, and none shall succeed!"

"You'll go to your grave a pure, untouched virgin?" Legolas asked, his face bland. "How sad. For the she-dwarves, that is."

Gimli huffed in horror. "I never said anything about being untouched," he grumbled, staring into the fire as they laughed.

"Eat heartily, lads!" declared Sam as he shoveled portions of food onto their tin plates. "We feast well tonight!"

"Typical," came Buffy's voice, and the men turned to see her and Dawn emerge from the trees, their hair hanging damply around their faces. "We leave, and they decide to have a party."

"Men!" Dawn agreed, and plopped down 'coincidentally' by Boromir, who flushed again and offered her his plate, which she accepted with a bright smile, rendering him completely speechless.

Buffy grinned at the scene, meeting Legolas' eyes when she bent to take Sam's offer of a filled plate. He was smiling, his cerulean eyes gleaming with humour, and for a long, strange moment she forgot to breathe. Then his smile became a knowing smirk and her breath returned to her in a whoosh. 

_Damned elves_, she thought crossly, stabbing a chunk of meat with her fork. _Maybe Dawn's got a point about them. _She refused to think about how she hadn't been as… enthusiastic to see Haldir as she usually was after months and months of celibacy, and she most certainly wasn't thinking about how a different elven face hovered in her mind's eye when he kissed her, nor how a different name was on her lips at the 'moment of truth'. 

_When had it happened,_ Buffy wondered… _when had she started to be attracted to Legolas?_ She'd have liked to think it was when he was nice to her in the talan, their first night in Lothlórien, but if she were honest, she'd admit it was when they'd been sniping at each other. _What is it about me_, Buffy demanded silently of herself, _that gets off on tension and arguing?_ She'd asked Dawn her opinion during their speedy bath.

"I think it's that you don't respect anything that comes too easily," Dawn replied thoughtfully after a moment's pondering and final rinse of soap from her body. "I always thought that's why you and Riley were so blah together, and why you were so wacko for Angel. Riley was way too easy—there was no challenge. With Angel, there was all that forbidden love stuff, and the angst…" She sighed nostalgically. "Ah, the angst."

"Yeah, fun times," Buffy replied sourly as they climbed, shivering and blue-tinged, from the water. "So looking forward to more of that."

Dawn lobbed a bar of soap at her sister, hitting Buffy squarely in the middle of the chest. "One thing I've learned over the years, Buffy, is to just accept who you are instead of beating yourself up over who you aren't." She squeezed the excess water from her hair and wrapped a towel turban-style around her head. 

Buffy stared at Dawn a long moment. "When did you get all mature and well-adjusted?" she demanded. "No, let me rephrase that: How did you get all mature and well-adjusted with people like Spike and Xander hanging around you all the time?"

Dawn only laughed and tugged her clean clothes on. "It's called growing up, Buffy. Even the best of us have to do it eventually."

"Does that mean you won't laugh at me when I stare at Legolas?" Buffy asked, her voice lowered now they were heading back to camp.

Dawn smirked. "You can only hope," she replied, then dodged away, laughing, when Buffy smacked at her. "Sister abuse! Sister abuse!"  

~*~

That night, all were asleep but for Frodo, who sat on watch. He watched them slumber peacefully. The women were across the clearing from the men, wishing for a little privacy, and the firelight flickered over Dagnir's face. She seemed… softer, since Dawn had come. And Dawn herself was a breath of fresh air to the Fellowship—the fear and fatigue that plagued them all was absent in her, and she buoyed their flagging spirits. He was glad she had joined them.

His thoughts were interrupted by the rustle of leaves in the distance, and he held his breath as he strained to listen. Another rustle, then the snap of a branch as it was stepped on by a careless foot— Frodo's gaze flicked over to the pile of weaponry by Aragorn, and saw that Sting was glowing faintly.

"Orcs!" he shouted, leaping around the fire for his sword. "Orcs!"

In a flash, everyone was out of their bedrolls and reaching for weapons. As orcs burst into the clearing, Buffy leapt up and rushed toward the creatures, her sword upraised for maximum damage. The fact that she was barefoot and wore nothing but a thin, brief shift that barely came to mid-thigh seemed to bother her not at all.

"Mmmm," growled one orc in appreciation, coming toward her with an eagerness borne not entirely of bloodlust. "Woman. Mmmm."

Buffy tapped her bare foot impatiently. "So, are you going to kill me or are we just making small talk?"

"Kill?" the orc asked with a horrible smile. "Maybe after."

"Ew, Buffy," Dawn said, hopping as she yanked on her leggings with one hand and grabbed for her pike with the other. "No orc smoochies, or I swear I'll barf."

"Oh, damn," Buffy replied as she smoothly lopped the head off the amorous orc. "And here was me thinking I'd get some steamy lovin' tonight." She stabbed another in the belly and sliced upward, dancing back when his innards spilled out to cover the ground where she'd just stood. "Guess I'll just have to stick with hot elves, huh?" And she kicked a third in the head, smashing him back into a tree before slashing it across the chest. She stood back and surveyed her damage. "The things I sacrifice for the cause."

The men had made short work of the other orcs. "You didn't save me even one?" Dawn asked petulantly, dropping her pristine, unbloodied weapon on the ground and yawning. "That settles it. Next time, no pants. I wasted too much time getting dressed."

"If you feel it best, Lady, please do not trouble yourself to wear pants," Boromir told her gravely while Aragorn covered his smile with his hand.

"See, Buffy? Gondor Guy thinks I shouldn't bother with pants. He—" Here, Dawn realized what she was saying and stopped to face him. He was watching her, an expression of careful innocence on his handsome face. Her gaze narrowed. "I'll go pantsless when you do, Boromir, how's that?" she asked sweetly, enjoying the widening of his eyes.

"Enough," Buffy said, pulling her blood-splattered shift away from her chest. "If I have to live through much more of this mating ritual stuff I'm gonna take a vow of celibacy." She seemed thoroughly oblivious to their staring at her legs until Dawn coughed and nodded at her sister's bared limbs. "Oh. Geez, guys, they're just legs. What did you think I walked on, anyway?"

Dawn tilted her head consideringly. "Kinda pale," she commented.

Buffy stuck one out in front of her to examine it. One of the men choked; possibly it was Gimli, though it could have been Aragorn. "You live in the mountains hip-deep in snow for ten years and tell me how tan **your** legs will be."

Dawn sighed. "I'm gonna miss the beach, aren't I?"

"Yep!" Buffy chirped. "You're gonna get pasty like me. Ha-ha!"

"If you would be so kind as to put pants on now, Dagnir," Aragorn ventured politely as Dawn glowered at her sister, "I believe there are more orcs out there. We should continue down the river toward Amon Hen."

Within a half-hour, they were packed up and back in the boats. Paddling in the dark was surprisingly peaceful, the only sound the faint splash as oars dipped into the water. Buffy manipulated the oars almost mindlessly, instead staring tiredly at the reflection of the moonlight on the rippling river. Daylight came at long last, and then they were staring at the immense statues of Isildur and his brother Anárion, the Argonath.

"Long have I desired to look upon the kings of old, my kin," said Aragorn, gazing up. Buffy looked at him a long moment, understanding intimately how it was to bear a legacy, to feel a connection to those who had gone before. He seemed to be handling it far better than she, but then he was much less vocal about things that bothered him. Buffy made a mental note to bug him about it later on, get him to open up a bit.

"This is the northern border of Gondor," Boromir said to no one in particular, his voice suspiciously gruff. "I am glad to be home."

They paddled past the Argonath into the lake of Nen Hithoel, and pulled up on the shore. Gimli grumbled about some supposed slight Aragorn had made upon his dwarfly strength, and while the Ranger tried to appease the Dwarf's bruised ego Legolas straightened, his alert senses picking up on something. 

"Something draws near, I can feel it," he said earnestly. "We should not longer, but press onward."

"I can feel it too," Buffy agreed, gaze flickering toward the trees in the distance. "They've been following us along the river for hours." Aragorn would not be swayed, however, and insisted on waiting until nightfall.

"Where's Frodo?" Merry asked suddenly, and Sam jolted awake from where he'd been dozing against a tree.

"Boromir's gone, too," Dawn said uneasily, scanning the surrounding area for a glimpse of him or the halfling.

Aragorn bolted off up the hill, and Buffy took off after him. "Stay away!" Frodo was shouting at Aragorn when she stumbled to the hilltop.

"Frodo, I swore to protect you," Aragorn protested, his hand outstretched to the Hobbit.

"Can you protect me from yourself?" Frodo whispered, his face stricken. "Would you destroy it?"

There was a pale whisper on the air, the faintest susurration, like a barely indrawn breath. "Aragorn… Elessar…"

"What's that?" Buffy demanded, her voice harsh with apprehension. "Who's saying that?"

Aragorn lifted anguished eyes to hers before dropping his gaze to stare at his hands, trembling before him, and she realized that it was the Ring. It called to him, called him by name, entreating him to claim it. Aragorn recognized it too, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I would have gone with you to the end," he said at last to Frodo, voice breaking with emotion. "Into the very fires of Mordor."

"I know," Frodo gasped, eyes brilliant with unshed tears. "Look after the others, especially Sam. He will not understand."

Another sound, this time a faint hum; Buffy's sharpened attention effortlessly homed in on it as the glow of Frodo's sword, and muttered, "Orcs!"

Aragorn looked too at the blue light shimmering from Frodo, and unsheathed his sword. "Go, Frodo! Run, run!" And as the Hobbit pushed past them to dash back down the hill, Aragorn and Buffy raced down the other side to confront the attacking horde.

"Find the halflings!" one of the creatures, the leader apparently, yelled to his companions. 

Buffy and Aragorn flung themselves into the fray, slicing and hacking, and she was very glad indeed to see Legolas and Gimli battle their way through the throng toward them. She did a bouncy leap over the head of one of the Uruk-hai and landed lightly beside Legolas. "Where's Dawn?" she demanded even as she scanned him for injuries.

"Still looking for Boromir," he replied, returning the favour. Finding none, he then did some complicated thing with his daggers that Buffy had to admire even as her brain whirled with panic for Dawn's safety. 

"That way," Gimli grunted, pointing with one hand while the other slung his axe with practiced ease into the torso of an Uruk-Hai.

Buffy dashed away, straining her ears, and heard the higher pitch of Dawn's voice in the distance. "Dawnie!" she screamed. "I'm coming!"

Ahead of her she saw Dawn, pike in hand, struggling with a particularly large Uruk-Hai. He had grasped the pole of her weapon and was trying to wrench it from the woman's grasp. Buffy put on a burst of speed and leapt, cleaving Dawn's attacker in half at the middle before spinning around and cutting off the upraised sword arm of another.

"Dawn, stay behind me," she panted. "Use the pike over my head, if you can." 

They fought successfully that way for a few minutes, and when the number of beasts on the ground was greater than that still advancing upon them, Dawn whimpered, "Buffy, I'm worried about Boromir."

They heard the twang of a bowstring not far away. "That's not Legolas," Buffy said in trepidation. "He was using his daggers…" She finally killed the last one with sudden twist of her blade.

Dawn gasped and pulled away from her sister, running toward the sound. "Boromir!" she shouted. "Boromir, where are you?"

Tearing through the brush after her, Buffy thought her heart would stop when she saw Boromir on the ground, an arrow in his shoulder, and Dawn crouched over him, using her own body as a shield as an incredibly ugly Uruk-Hai slowly and with great deliberation aimed his bow at them.

"Crap," Buffy muttered, and flung herself in front of her sister. The arrow, when it struck her, felt very cold. It would have been oddly soothing if it hadn't hurt so damned much. _And what was that noise? _She blinked. Oh. It was Dawn screaming. Why was she screaming? _She would get a sore throat if she kept it up for much longer_. "Dawnie?" she asked at last.

"Buffy…" moaned Dawn. 

"Dawnie, shut up. You're giving me a headache." Buffy coughed then, and was surprised to taste blood in her mouth. "Ew."

"Buffy, you've been shot, but you're not going to die, ok?" Dawn said, her hands fluttering uselessly. 

Buffy stared blearily up at the face above her. "Where was I shot?"

Dawn's face was a bleached, sickly white. "In the chest," she whispered as the others crashed through the forest toward them.

"Not again," Buffy muttered. "Just once, I'd like to go by beheading. Just to see how it would feel."

"What talk is this?" Aragorn asked, falling to his knees beside Buffy, his face drawn.

"Buffy, don't joke about this!" Dawn shrieked. Tear coursed freely down her blood-spattered cheeks, making a pinkish mess on her pretty face.

Buffy smiled. "Dawnie, don't worry. I'll be fine. I'm going to die now, but I'll be back in a few hours."

"Back in a few hours?" asked a hoarse, disbelieving voice—Boromir's.

"Oh, you're still alive," Buffy gasped. "Good. Now, listen, Dawn. I can't die. Not permanently." She coughed up more blood. When she spoke again, her voice was much weaker. "Yuck. Dawn. I will be back. Yank out the arrow, clean me up a little, and just prop me in a corner. I'll be back." Her voice was fading fast. 

"Do you promise?" Dawn demanded tearfully.

"I promise," Buffy replied, and died. 


	30. Chapter 8

The Gift of Death, Part 8

Dawn tried to fling herself across Buffy's body, but Boromir pulled her into his arms and rocked her, gently stroking her tangled hair and murmuring nonsense words to her in an effort to comfort her.. 

"What sorcery is this?" Gimli demanded. His face beneath the ichor-caked beard was filled with apprehension.

"I do not know," Aragorn replied grimly, "but we must get back to the shore, where it is safer."

"The Uruk-Hai have taken the little ones," Boromir said over Dawn's head, regretting tempering his voice.

Aragorn nodded. "And Frodo has left to take the ring to Mordor."

Legolas started in surprise, then peered off toward the lake. "Sam is with him. Hurry, we must follow." But Aragorn made no effort to move. "You mean not to follow them?"

"Frodo's fate in no longer in our hands," the Ranger replied, scrubbing his hand over his unshaven cheek. 

"Then it has all been in vain!" Gimli exclaimed, eyes wide. "The Fellowship has failed!"

"Not if we hold true to each other," Aragorn disagreed, trying to infuse his voice with as much strength and inspiration as possible. "We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death. Not while we have strength left. Leave all that can be spared behind. We travel light. Let's hunt some Orc!"

Gimli smiled then, a lethal smile. "Yesss," he said slowly. Legolas merely nodded.

They bandaged Boromir's wounded shoulder as best they could, and Legolas tenderly removed the fatal arrow from Buffy's unmoving chest. He clapped his hand over the gaping hole, as if to staunch any blood that might emerge, but to his shock found that the hole was not only **not** oozing blood, but…

"It closes," he breathed, and called to the others. "Her wound. It closes!" And as they huddled around, they watched the pulpy mess knit into a raw-looking scar. "Elbereth!" the elf murmured. "How can this be?" He glanced at Dawn. "Have you seen the like before, in your world?"

"This is completely unprecedented," Dawn said, amazed. "I'm absolutely flummoxed." She grinned suddenly. "Buffy always keeps her promises."

"She died to save you," Boromir said quietly. "That is a noble sacrifice."

Dawn glanced at him shyly, then decided to study her shoes. "She died for you too, Boromir."

He frowned. "Why? She does not know or care for me."

"**She** doesn't," Dawn muttered, still looking away. Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas suddenly found other places to be, the elf hoisting Buffy's limp body into his arms while the other two went to strip down their supplies. 

Boromir studied her downcast face. "What are you saying, Lady?" He stepped closer to her. "What are you saying, Dawn?"

She looked up at him, eyes filled with tears. "Buffy died to save you, because she knew I… would miss you."

He gazed at her for a long moment, and then lifted her chin with his good hand. "You honour me, Dawn." His fingers caressed the smooth curve of her cheek. "And I wish I were worthy of your affection. But—" he dropped his hand from her face. "I am not."

Boromir turned from her and stared into the distance, a muscle leaping in his jaw as he clenched his cheek in an effort to control his raging emotions. "I am weak, Dawn. The Ring called to me from the very beginning, and I heeded that call. I nearly betrayed the Ringbearer."

"You're not weak," Dawn contradicted softly, resting her hand in the middle of his back. "You were just tempted. We all have been, at one point or another." She came around to face him. "You said no, when it counted. You're stronger than someone who's never been tempted—you were able to walk away from it."

He stared into her eyes with something like desperation, and his hand came to rest lightly on her shoulder. "You do not fault me for my weakness?"

She shook her head. "I admire you for your strength, Boromir." 

His hand moved from her shoulder to curl around the back of her neck, and he slowly drew her toward him. "You honour me, Lady," he said again, and kissed her. Carefully, she wrapped her arms around his waist and leaned into him, ignoring the bite of his armour into her chest. When he pulled back, she smiled brilliantly at him. 

"And now, I think we had best join our companions before they leave us here," he suggested. "The elf looked particularly violent, did you notice?"

"Yeah," Dawn said with a smirk, following his lead back to the riverside. "He's all worked up about Buffy."

Boromir quirked an eyebrow. "Do you think so? I had not believed him capable of the finer emotion of love."

"Oh, everyone's capable of it," Dawn told him breezily as they arrived at the lakeshore. "Some just have to work harder at it than others."

"Of what do you speak?" Aragorn asked, strapping a bundle on his back.

"Of luuuurve," Dawn said, drawing the word out. 

"I do not think monsters are capable of love," Gimli said. He was assisting Legolas in making a travois for Buffy, who had been duly cleaned up and propped in a corner. If not for the lack of breathing, she would have merely looked asleep.

"Well, I know at least four demons who are capable of love," Dawn told them as she crouched down beside her sister, brushing a stray strand of hair from Buffy's face, and grinning when they stared. "Angel and Spike were both in love with Buffy, and Clem and Lorne are just lovable guys in general— they love everyone."

"Dagnir once mentioned she had known true love," Gimli mentioned. "Was he one of these demons?"

Dawn nodded sadly. "That was Angel."

"She had to kill him," Legolas said quietly, his head bent over the twigs he wove into a sling between two sturdy branches.

"He turned really evil, and she had to stab him and push him into a portal to a hell realm. It nearly killed her. She was never the same, after." She took a deep breath. "But that's over and done with now. Angel's been gone for years, and Buffy's here now. And it looks like she's hooked up with Haldir."

Legolas narrowed his eyes at the mention of the march-warden, and Dawn grinned triumphantly at Boromir behind the elf's back. "We should go now," Legolas snapped, and carefully placed Buffy on the finished travois. "I will pull her first."

~*~

They had walked for hours and the sun was beginning to set when a cheery voice piped up. "This is really the right way to travel. Mush, doggies! Mush!" Gimli promptly dropped the travois (it was his turn to pull) and burst into tears. Legolas clapped the dwarf on the shoulder and shot him a relieved grin. Aragorn and Boromir just exchanged looks of extreme relief.

Dawn dropped to her knees beside her sister and yanked her into a fierce hug. "Took you long enough!" she scolded, sniffling. 

"Glad are we, Dagnir, of your speedy recovery from death," Aragorn told her, eyes twinkling in his tired face. 

"Me too!" Buffy said, pushing Dawn gently away. "So, was I the only dead one?" She frowned when she didn't see any Hobbits. "Where are the others?"

"Merry and Pippin were taken by the Uruk-Hai that killed you," Dawn explained.

"What happened to Frodo and Sam?"

"They have gone to Mordor," Aragorn said heavily, avoiding her stare.

Buffy stared at him, eyes nearly popping out of her head. "You let them go? Alone?" She looked around at the others. "Is everyone here very stoned?"

"Frodo had reason to believe that we would not able to resist the lure of the ring," Legolas said quietly. His voice held no censure, but Boromir suddenly found a distant rock very fascinating, and gazed intently upon it. "He would trust no one but himself."

Buffy fumed for a few minutes but decided to simply accept what she couldn't change anyway. "I see we've pared down to the bare essentials," she said eventually, seeing that their only supplies consisted of what they could carry on their backs. Her eyes narrowed. "You didn't leave my soap behind, did you?"

"That's right, Buf," Dawn said with a patented Little Sister Eye Roll™. "Your priorities are definitely in order. Not. Now get your butt outta that… thing… and let's get moving."

"Fine," Buffy grumbled, and made to hoist herself up, only to find a slim, strong hand under her elbow. "Thanks," she said breathlessly to Legolas, who nodded calmly and went to walk beside Aragorn.

"You've got it bad," Dawn whispered in her ear. 

"You should talk," Buffy whispered back, looking pointedly at where her sister was holding hands with Boromir. "How long was I actually dead before you two hooked up?" Dawn had the grace to blush, but said nothing. "Ten minutes?" Buffy teased. "Fifteen?" She peered at Boromir, who was staring once more at the fascinating rock. "Hmph. Good to know how much you missed me." 

She wiggled a little under her pack and trudged after the others. Dawn and Boromir were paired up, and Legolas was deep in discussion with Aragorn over something, so she stepped up to Gimli. "Looks like we're hiking buddies for this leg of the trip, huh, Gimli?" she asked, glancing at him when he didn't respond. "You ok?"

He looked up at her, tears in his deep-set eyes. "Never have I seen anything like that, lass," he told Buffy. "For a person so grievously wounded to return to life… I am not ashamed to say that I am both honoured to have witnessed it, and terrified of the power that must be a part of you, to make such a thing possible."

"It's those wacky Valar," Buffy replied lightly. "They made me indestructible. I've died a few dozen times since I came to Middle-Earth." She glared darkly at the sky. "When will you give me my gift, you bastards?" she shouted, and waved a fist ineffectually. She lowered it when she noticed the others staring at her. "The Valar and I have this love-hate thing going on," she explained weakly. "They love to torment me, and I hate them."

Aragorn dropped flat to the ground suddenly. Dawn was just about to become alarmed when Legolas held up his hand for silence. "Their pace quickens," the Ranger said. "They must have caught our scent. Hurry!"

And he leapt to his feet and began to run. The others quickly followed him, Gimli grumbling about how dwarves were much better at short sprints than cross-country running. They ran for what seemed like weeks, but was actually only hours, before Aragorn screeched to a halt and picked something up from the ground. "Not idly do the leaves of Lorien fall," he said pensively, holding up a cloak-pin like the one they had all received in Caras Galadhon. 

"They met yet be alive," murmured Legolas, hope plain on his face.

"Less than a day ahead of us, come!" Aragorn said encouragingly, and set off again. Obediently the others trotted after him, relieved when after another hour he stopped at the crest of a hill and surveyed the landscape below. "Rohan. Home of the horse-lords. There is something strange at work here. Some evil gives speed to these creatures, sets its will against us."

Legolas took a few steps ahead, peering out at the horizon. 

"Legolas, what do your Elf eyes see?"

"The Uruks turn northwest," Legolas replied, his gaze seeing as the others could not. "They are taking the Hobbits to Isengard, running as if the very whips of their masters were behind them."

"That's a cool trick," Buffy commented to Dawn. "Gotta have him teach me that." He turned and smiled at her, a smile so pure she felt faint for a moment. "Elves are dangerous," she muttered, carefully looking anywhere but at him, and knowing he was watching her.

~*~

When they pitched camp that night, Buffy glared at her sister's lingering with Boromir across the fire until, heaving a huge sigh, Dawn left the Man and lay down beside Buffy.

"You **do** realize that I'm not fifteen any longer, right, Buf?" she asked. "I mean, I'm thirty-one years old. I was married for three years. I'm no shrinking virgin."

Buffy blinked. "Dawn, that is so totally irrelevant!" she shouted, uncaring if the men could hear her. "If I'm not getting any, neither are you!" She burrowed deeper under her blanket. "Besides, some things are just not meant to be overheard, and your sister getting jiggy with some buff guy while you're shivering all alone in a skimpy blanket is one of them. Now snuggle up, I'm cold."

The next morning, Buffy woke to find Aragorn and Legolas already up and dressed. 

"The red sun rises," Legolas said as Buffy joined them. "Blood has been spilled this night."

"How are you feeling?" Aragorn asked her. 

"Terrific," she replied cheerfully. "Whenever I die, I feel super after I come back. My whole body is brand-new again, and any injuries I've had since the last time I died are totally repaired." She smiled at his expression of concern. "I actually don't mind the dying so much, it's… peaceful." She shrugged. "Not like it's going to change any time soon, so I might as well enjoy the process, hm?"

She turned away to wake Dawn, but was aware of Legolas continuing to watch her. They began walking again, and this time Gimli was in front with Aragorn. Dawn was, of course, attached at Boromir's hip, so Buffy found herself paired with Legolas. 

"You demanded earlier that the Valar give you your gift," he said by way of initiating conversation. "What did you mean by that?"

She sighed and pushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear. "It's a very long, complex, and boring tale," she warned. "Are you ready for it?"

"I am an elf, I will live thousands of years. I believe I can withstand a few hours of storytelling." He smiled at her, and she found herself speaking almost against her will.

"Well, it all started with the first Slayer…" she began.

Hours later, her throat sore from talking, Buffy wrapped up her tale. "I got it completely wrong. Died for nothing, got sent here for nothing. Death is my gift, but not one I'm supposed to give away. One I have to receive, and only from the Valar themselves." Again she glared skywards. "So now I get to wait, and fight, and die a thousand times, and wait some more until they decide I'm done." She glanced at the silent elf. "How's that for a crappy present?"

"Long life is not the burden you think it is, Dagnir," he said, and she marveled at the sound of her name on his lips. His beautifully shaped, soft-looking pink lips… mmm. _Focus, Buffy! _she scolded herself. _Pay attention to what the yummy elf is saying!_ "I am over two thousand years old, and I have yet to become tired of living."

Buffy tilted her head to one side, thinking. "Maybe because you're raised that way. Knowing you'll live forever changes how you look at things. I think it makes you see how things move in currents, in cycles. When things get bad, you know to have faith that they'll pass, and get better eventually."

"But humans… our lifespans are too short to be able to wait out the bad times. We don't have a sense of patience, like elves do. We know we're going to die, that our time here is much too short, and we spaz out accordingly." She flashed a grin at him and held her arms out to display herself. "Behold the mess that comes of being raised a human, but having an elven lifespan." 

All too soon, her smile faded. "I just don't see the point of living forever. Especially…" She stopped, bit her lip as she stared down at the ground. Even after so many years, so many partings, she'd always been able to go on because she'd known that somewhere in the universe, Angel was still alive. So to speak.

"Especially what?" Legolas prodded gently.

"Especially now that Angel is dead. I mean, I'm glad that Dawn is here, but she won't live forever, either. When she's gone, what will I have after that?" She looked up at him, her eyes glimmering. "I'm thinking maybe it was a big mistake to have her come here, to Arda… I had gotten used to being alone, and now I'm not alone anymore. When Dawn is dead, I'll be alone again, and it will be so hard to accept that once more…" A rogue tear fell, rolled down her smudged cheek. "What point is there to a life alone? To a life without any love?"

Legolas caught the tear on his fingertip and studied the drop of moisture for a moment. "There is no point to life without love," he agreed, and slowly licked the tear from his finger, staring deeply into her eyes the whole time. "But you must find love, for it is there. You must reach out and grasp it with greedy hands. You must tame it, and make it yours. It will not wait while you dally, nor will it force its way into your heart and mind." His smile at her was like the sun cresting the horizon, and she found herself smiling back. 

"Horses," Aragorn hissed, interrupting them, and motioned for all to hide behind a boulder. A large group of horsemen crested the hill, banners flying, and the ranger stepped out of hiding to address them. "Riders of Rohan, what news from the Mark?" The others emerged as well, only to find themselves swiftly surrounded by spears pointing at their faces. 

"What business do an Elf, a Dwarf, two men, and…" the leader stared in shock at Dawn and Buffy, "two **women** have in the Riddermark? Speak quickly!"

Aragorn soothingly introduced them all. "We are friends of Rohan and of Theoden, your king."

The man pulled off his helm with a sigh, revealing a ruggedly handsome face and long golden spill of hair, and said he was Eomer, nephew to the king. "Theoden no longer recognizes friend from foe."

"We track a party of Uruk-hai westward across the plain," Aragorn explained. "They've taken two of our friends captive." 

"The Uruks are destroyed," Eomer told him. "We slaughtered them during the night, and left none alive. We piled the carcasses and burned them." He motioned over his shoulder to where a column of smoke rose to the sky. "I am sorry."

Dawn pressed her face against Boromir's shoulder, and his hand came up to stroke her hair. Gimli bowed his head in sorrow, and Legolas placed his hand on the dwarf's shoulder in grief.

"No," Buffy whispered. "Unless we see their bodies ourselves, they're not dead."

Eomer stared at her a moment. "Look for your friends. But do not trust to hope." He sighed then, a gusty and weary sound. 'It has forsaken these lands." He whistled and called, "Hasufel! Arod! Timon!" Three horses obediently trotted over. "May these horses bear you to greater fortune than their former masters. Farewell."

They piled with grim determination onto their new horses: Gimli behind Legolas, Dawn snug in the circle of Boromir's arms, and Buffy behind Aragorn. She exchanged a look of exasperation with Gimli—it sucked to have to ride pillion. At the pile of charred orcs, they leapt down and began sifting through the debris. Gimli soon found something, and with a sob said, "It's one of their wee belts…"

Aragorn walked a few paces away, thrusting his hands into his hair as if he would tear it out by its roots. Buffy went after him and was about to touch his shoulder when he slowly lowered his arms again, attention caught. 

"A Hobbit lay here," he said, wonder in his voice, and a terrible, faint hope. "And the other. They crawled, their hands bound." He began to run along the tracks, his voice speeding up. "Their bonds were cut." He held up a ragged piece of rope. "They ran over here, and were followed. The tracks lead away from the battle…" he broke off, staring at the trees in the distance. "Into Fangorn Forest."


	31. Chapter 9

The Gift of Death, Part 9

"Buffy, it feels… wrong… in here," Dawn whispered after they'd walked a few hours through Fangorn Forest. "There are some things I can just smell. It's like a sixth sense." As their horses had refused to accompany them into the dense thicket of woods, instead choosing to ignore even Legolas' soft encouragements and bolting away across the plains, it wasn't exactly a difficult conclusion to reach.

"Um, that would be one of the original five, I think," Buffy said, poking her sister in the shoulder. "But I **do** have a sixth sense, and I can tell that there's something out there. So can he." She nodded toward Legolas, who had frozen and was staring through the woods. 

"The White Wizard approaches," Legolas said at last.

"Do not let him speak. He will put a spell on us," Aragorn warned, and all drew their weapons while Legolas nocked an arrow. Their finely tuned warrior senses directed them to spin to the right, and Gimli chucked his axe with deadly accuracy while Legolas let fly his missile.

But to their shock, arrow and axe were deflected, and the swords that Boromir, Aragorn, and Buffy held became so hot they burned their hands. Dropping them to the ground, they squinted and shielded their eyes against the fierce glow emanating from the White Wizard.

"You track two Hobbits," the wizard said, his voice slow and deep. 

"Where are they?" Aragorn demanded, glancing with longing at his fallen sword as he flexed his hand.

"They passed this way the day before yesterday. They met someone they did not expect. Does that comfort you?"

Buffy could almost **hear** Aragorn grinding his teeth with impatience. "Who are you? Show yourself!"  

The bright light dimmed, and Buffy blinked, then blinked again when the White Wizard revealed himself to be none other than Gandalf. 

"Mithrandir!" exclaimed Legolas in shock. 

"Well met, Legolas," replied the wizard, eyes bright beneath his bushy brows as he smiled faintly at them. 

"Beyond all hope," murmured Aragorn, "you return to us in our need, Gandalf."

"Gandalf," the old man repeated, his voice slow and deep, as if surfacing from a dream. "Yes, that was the name. I was Gandalf."

"What's going on?" Dawn demanded. "He **was** Gandalf? I thought you said he died. Can he come back to life, too? Doesn't anyone stay dead in this world?" She looked distinctly grumpy.

"I know as much as you do, Dawn," Buffy snapped, trying to listen to the exchange between the others over her sister's questions. Then she heard Gandalf spouting off about passing through fire and deep water, about forgetting and remembering and then her head began to hurt and she wished she hadn't bothered to listen in the first place. It was with much relief when he stopped waxing philosophical and entreated the men to describe what had happened since his fall back in Moria.

"He was dead," she said, more to herself than to Dawn as she surveyed Gandalf's sparkly white garb and new hairdo. "But it seems he's not. Definitely not like he was before, that's for damned sure."

Dawn peered at her sister. "You don't trust him, do you?"

Buffy frowned. "It's not that I don't trust him, exactly…" She didn't know how to express her unease. Sure, she knew **she** could return from the dead, but she knew how that worked. As a general rule, people generally didn't return from bottomless pits all transformed into glowing celestial beings. That was just… weird. "I just think we should be careful, until he proves that he's not… warped somehow." She grinned at her sister. "I haven't stayed alive this long by being naïve."

Dawn snorted. "You've died, what? Twenty times? 'Stayed alive this long', my ass." Buffy glared at her, and she relented. "But you have a point." Buffy beamed. "For once," Dawn added, ducking away from Buffy's attempted slap to the arm with a squeal.

Gandalf turned toward where Boromir sat, plainly still uncomfortable with how close he had come to committing evil to obtain the ring. "I see you have resisted your temptation, son of Gondor. It fills me with joy, to know you could keep your heart pure." He turned a canny glance toward Dawn, sitting  close to the man. "And it looks as if you have been well rewarded for your bravery."

Boromir flushed and Dawn frowned. "Hey, I'm no prize," she snapped at Gandalf.

"You are not wrong," Gimli muttered, and the others couldn't quite hide their laughter. 

Dawn retorted, "You know what I mean!"

"Indeed we do, Lady," Gandalf said gallantly. "You are better than a prize, after all." Dawn looked at him curiously. "You are the Key, are you not?"

"Um, yeah. Kinda," Dawn admitted. "But I don't know what to do with my Key-ness. I can't use it on my own."

Gandalf patted her kindly on the arm. "That is where I will help you. Fear not." 

Dawn beamed up at him, and they chatted amiably as they continued their walk from the woods, but Buffy merely watched them.

"What are you thinking?" Legolas asked, coming to her side.

"Who, me?" she said, flashing him what she hoped was a genuine-looking smile. His raised eyebrow told her he wasn't buying it. "Why do you think I'm thinking anything special? I could be thinking about… about washing my hair, or what we'll have for breakfast tomorrow, or—

"I know you better than that, Dagnir," Legolas interrupted. "I know that look on your face. It means you are thinking hard, and about something that is important."

"You don't know me that well, Legolas," she snapped, stomping away, trying to outdistance him, but his longer legs caught her up easily. She shot him a glance from the corner of her eye and saw he was smiling. "You don't! I'm very enigmatic."

He smiled wider. "I used to think so."

Buffy stopped right there and folded her arms across her chest. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, I used to think so. But I have figured you out, and now you are as an open book to me." He tilted his head to one side. "Does this bother you? I would not betray you."

Buffy tried to frown at him, but felt her anger melting away in spite of herself at the sight of his guileless blue eyes fixed so intently on her. "I know that," she said grudgingly. "I just…" She fell silent.

"Tell me," he urged, placing his hands on her shoulders and rubbing gently. His eyes were so calm, so deep, so blue… Buffy felt like she was falling into them, as she'd fallen into Galadriel's mirror. Like she could learn the secrets of the universe within them. 

"When Angel… went bad," she began haltingly. "He knew everything about me, used it to hurt me, to kill my friends. He made it so Drusilla could kill Kendra, he killed Jenny, tortured Giles…" She lowered her head and stared at Legolas' boots, watching her tears splatter onto their dusty toes. "I'm afraid," she whispered, so low that only an elf could hear her. "I'm afraid that my weakness will get people hurt."

"Weakness? What weakness do you speak of? For the Dagnir I know has none." She looked at him quickly, to see if he were teasing her, but his beautiful face was serious. 

She laughed shakily. "That shows how little you know me, Legolas. I'm full of weakness. I'm so scared, most of the time. Being in Middle-Earth these seventeen years has been both the hardest and easiest time of my life… I've had no one, I've been so lonely…"

She scrubbed at her eyes with her fists like a small child. "But at the same time, it's been wonderful. There's been no one to get hurt because of me. There's been no guilt, no worry. The worst that could happen to a person is dying, and even that is denied to me by the Valar."

"I know of the sorrow of which you speak," Legolas said at last. "It is what comes of being an elf with mortal friends." He looked toward their companions, who had continued walking and were now barely visible through the trees. "Deeply it pains me to think of their passing, knowing that I will go on long after they have departed. It is how I feel also for those of my kind who have departed Middle-Earth for Valinor. We have faith that their journey is safe, but no sure knowledge of their arrival."

"It is for this reason that elves tend to refrain from friendships with mortals. We are a passionate people, we feel deeply. Our grief bites deep, just as our joy shines bright. It is easier to keep to ourselves, knowing that our dear ones will not grow old and sicken and die while we remain young forever. That is our limitation."

He slid his hands from her shoulders down her arms, to grasp her hands. Lifting them to his mouth, he dropped a kiss in each palm. "Weakness shared is weakness halved. We are stronger now than we were before."

Buffy blinked back tears. "You're a really great guy, you know that, Legolas?"

He smiled serenely at her. "I have heard that before. But usually not from a weeping person. Could you tell me again, in a more convincing way? Because the tears make me doubt your sincerity."

She punched his arm and sniffled. "You're a good friend," she told him with a fierce glare.

"Much better," he gasped, rubbing his bruised flesh. "Thank you."

"I aim to please," she smirked, and jogged to catch up to the others, Legolas close on her heels.

~ * ~

They made camp that night in a small clearing, Gandalf insisting they were safer in Fangorn than out of it, and sat long around the fire, exchanging tales of what had happened to them since their parting in Moria. "It is time for us to rest," Gandalf declared when the fire had burned low, "for there is much to accomplish on the morrow. But before we seek our sleep, the Lady Galadriel bade me give you these messages." To Aragorn, he recited a cryptic message about his people, the Dúnedain, and the road that leads to the sea. As for Legolas…

_Legolas Greenleaf long under tree_

_In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!_

_If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,_

_Thy shall then rest in the forest no more._

The elf's back seemed to stiffen with each line until it was ramrod-straight, Buffy noted with concern, and then watched in amazement as Gimli pouted he had not received a message from Galadriel, and Legolas snapped at him.

"Would you have her speak openly to you of your death?" he demanded, eyes glittering in the firelight. 

"Yes," the dwarf replied stubbornly. "If she had naught else to say."

Legolas opened his mouth to speak once more, but Gandalf interrupted. "Your pardon, Gimli! Indeed, she sent words to you, and neither dark nor sad."

Legolas stood and stomped off, as well as an elf might, into the trees. Buffy hesitated only a moment before she acquiesced to Dawn's bony elbow in her ribs, and followed him. She found him a few hundred paces away from the campsite, crouched beside a trickle of a stream, dangling his long white fingers in the water and staring fixedly at the wavering reflection of the moon in its uneven surface. She knew he'd heard her walk through the woods, silent though she'd been, and waited for him to speak. 

"I suppose," he began slowly, his voice vibrating with emotion, "that it was naïve of me to think the sea-longing would never come."

Buffy edged closer. "It's normal for your people to want to head to Valinor eventually," she ventured. "Why are you upset by it?"

He kept his gaze fixed on the water. "I would not have been, a year ago," Legolas said at last. "But this journey of mine has brought me friends, mortal friends, dear to me as my own life. I… find myself pained at the knowledge that they cannot come to Valinor as well. That we will part one day, and it shall be forever."

"Elves aren't big with the parted forever," Buffy commented in sympathy, and dropped to sit beside him on the mossy forest floor. "Even after elves die, you can go visit them in the Halls of Mandos. It's never forever." She reached out and dipped her fingertips in the cool stream, tracing the shimmering outline of the moon.  "Doesn't it make you feel weird? Everything has a cycle, after all… everything is born, lives, then dies. Animals, trees, flowers, everything. Except you." She turned her face up to him. "And except me, now." She sighed. "I can't find it in me to like it, this living forever business. I wasn't built for it."

"There is no choice, but to accept what the Valar have chosen for our destinies," Legolas murmured. "I must accept that my friends will decline and pass while I remain, and you must learn that  immortality must not be the burden you conceive it to be."

Buffy snorted skeptically. "Yeah, really feeling the immortality love, what with you almost crying at the thought of surviving everyone you like."

He looked at her then, eyes glowing with some indefinable emotion. "Then I will teach you to embrace your immortality," he told her. "I will teach you. And you will teach me how to accept loss."

A tumult of memories flashed through Buffy. Angel's face, shocked and betrayed and so, so loving as she thrust the sword through him, sending him to hell. And then, a year later, his determination to give her as normal a life as possible by leaving after her catastrophic graduation. Parker's use of her for sex. Riley's abandonment when she needed him so desperately. Her mother's death. Her father.

"Yeah," she said. "I know how to accept loss. I'm the world's grand-master-Olympic-winner-of-all-time on loss."

Legolas blinked in surprise, then tilted his head to the side, surveying her a long moment. Buffy took advantage of his silence to admire the spill of champagne-gold hair as it coursed, like a liquid stream itself, down his shoulder almost to his waist. "Perhaps I will also teach you how to avoid bitterness."

Buffy was of the opinion that she was completely entitled to her bitterness. It was all she had to keep her warm at night, after all. She got nimbly to her feet and glared down at him, retreating behind a shield of hostility. "And maybe I'll teach you how it feels when the Slayer socks you in the mouth."

He stood as well, his movement a mere whisper in the dark. "Is there not a preferable action you can think of for my mouth, Dagnir?" he murmured, and lowered his lips to hers.

Buffy stood stock-still for a moment, in shock not only that he was kissing her, but also that it felt so amazingly, blessedly good. Opening her mouth on a gasp, she felt the tip of his tongue caress her bottom lip briefly before entering to seek out her own. Desire, fluid and molten, surged upward from her belly and made her heart race. When Legolas lifted his head to stare wonderingly at her, she realized her body was pressed flush against his, and her arms were wound around his neck, fingers driven deeply into his hair to clasp his head. 

She felt as surprised as he looked. Never had she experienced such a vivid scalding of lust, not with Haldir, not with Riley, not even with Angel. A little frightened by its intensity, and the implications of it, she slid from his embrace and, turning, ran lightly back to camp.

Her arrival was met with inquiring glances from all but Dawn, who ran a shrewd eye over her sister's clinch-disheveled appearance and kiss-swollen lips and grinned so hugely that she seemed to turn into one immense smirk. "Oh, shut up," Buffy told her sister crossly, stomping over to her bedroll and flinging herself into it.

~ * ~

They resumed their trek out of the forest early the next morning, reaching the open grasslands by midday. Gandalf intoned, "One stage of the journey is over, another begins. War has come to Rohan. We must ride to Edoras with all speed." And then he gave a piercing whistle. Soon an answering neigh could be heard and a horse galloped over the crest of a hill toward them, Arod, Timon, and Hasufel not far behind.

"Speaking of glowing celestial beings…" Buffy said, gaping. For the animal was not merely white, but a pearlescent, silvery white, the colour of the moon on a clear night, and his mane and tail flowed like milk. 

"That is one of the Mearas, unless my eyes are cheated by some spell," Legolas murmured, his gaze roaming eagerly over the vision before them.

"Shadowfax," Gandalf introduced the creature. "He's the lord of all horses, and my friend through many dangers."

"I want a friend like that," Dawn said, hesitantly coming forward to stroke Shadowfax's neck. 

"You have me," Boromir reminded her. "You may pet me like that any time you wish." He stepped back, however, abashed when Buffy leveled a cold look at him. "Or perhaps not," he amended hastily, and Gimli chuckled.

"Mount up, lad," the dwarf advised. "You can't win."


	32. Chapter 10

The Gift of Death, Part 10

Once they came within eyesight of the city of Edoras, nestled against a foothill of the mountains of the South, Gandalf explained how Théoden was under the control of Saruman. "Be careful of what you say," he warned. "Do not look for welcome here."

They rode into the city, and Buffy was taken aback by how gloomy and barren the place was. All were dressed in black and stared with open hostility at the newcomers. 

"You'd find more cheer in a graveyard," Gimli muttered from behind Legolas, and Buffy knew from experience how correct he was.

She peeked over Aragorn's shoulder at the hall atop the hill, and saw a woman standing on the flat landing, pale gown and hair streaming behind her in the wind. As she watched, the woman turned and fled in a whirl of skirts into the building.

They dismounted and climbed slowly up the steep stairs to the landing, where they were met by a guard who refused to let them pass with their weapons "By order of Grima Wormtongue". Buffy smirked as she saw Legolas couldn't resist giving his daggers a little fancy twirl as he handed them over. She cheerfully dumped her sword and various knives she produced from the hidden spots all over her body.

"It does not bother you to enter this place, weaponless?" Gimli asked her, giving his beloved axe a last mournful glance before entering the hall.

"Gimli, **I** am a weapon," Buffy reminded him. "One of these days, I gotta show you what I can do with my bare hands."

"I would like to see this, too," Legolas murmured behind her, and somehow she thought he didn't exactly mean fighting… she tore her thoughts away from that course when Gandalf pretended to be a doddering old fart so as to not give up his staff, and into the hall they all progressed.

They were followed closely by very hostile-looking men, and Dawn edged closer to Boromir, who wrapped a protective arm around her waist. A pasty-pale, utterly hideous man—Buffy assumed he was the Grima Wormtongue mentioned by the guard-- crouched beside a throne at the end of the hall. In the throne was slumped a disreputable heap of robes, and only when it moved did she realize that the heap was actually a person. 

"Late is the hour in which this conjurer chooses to appear," Grima said nastily. "_Láthspell_ I name him. Ill news is an ill guest."

  
"Be silent!" Gandalf roared, raising his staff. "Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth. I have not passed through fire and death to bandy crooked words with a witless worm!".

"I told you to take the wizard's staff," Grima hissed at the doorman, and the hostile guards rushed toward the Fellowship.

"Looks like you guys get your demonstration earlier than I thought," Buffy quipped, and punched one chap so hard he flew back twenty feet. Flying up, she landed a solid kick to another man's chest, smashing him into a wall, and at the same time grabbed the heads of two others and knocked them together with a very painful-sounding thud. 

Looking around, she saw Boromir fending five men off while trying to keep Dawn behind him, and Buffy took a running leap up a pillar, using it to spring up and somersault backward in the air, coming down directly beside Boromir. 

"How did you do that?" he demanding, landing a right-hook on the jaw of one of his attackers, dropping him like a rock. 

"I'm full of surprises," Buffy replied, and sent a spinning-kick into the head of another fellow, who lurched into his neighbour and sent them both tumbling to the floor.

"Let me hit at least one of them!" Dawn wailed from behind Boromir.

"Here, sweet, I saved one for you," he said fondly, stepping aside, and she beamed at him before slugging the last one in the stomach, then crashing her knee into his chin when he bent over in pain. With a shriek of pain, the man fell over, not able to decide whether he should clutch his belly or his face. "Well done, sweet," Boromir commented, impressed.

"You're so good to me, honey," Dawn told him, with a kiss of gratitude. Buffy made a face.

"You two are weird," she grumbled, ambling over to where Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn were dusting off their hands after finishing off their attackers.

Gandalf once more raised his staff. "Théoden, son of Thengel, too long have you sat in the shadows." He gestured with his hand. "Harken to me! I release you from this spell."

"Hey, the nasty guy is trying to get away!" Dawn whispered, pointing to where Grima was unobtrusively creeping off to the side, and Gimli shot over to him with impressive speed, pinning him to the floor with his boot on the worm's throat.

Saruman jeered at Gandalf from Théoden's body, and the lovely woman they'd seen at their arrival ran forward with a cry. Only Aragorn's swift arm around her waist held her back.

"Rohan is mine!" Saruman bellowed from Théoden's mouth, and Gandalf strode forward to smite the elderly king with his staff. Théoden slumped back into his chair with a moan, and Éowyn  wrenched free of Aragorn's grasp to go to him. Tenderly, she lifted his head from his chest and gasped to see his face transform to that of a much younger and more aware man. The dingy hall filled with light as the evil was dispelled.

"I know your face," the king said, his voice rough, as he looked at the woman. "Éowyn ? Éowyn !" She burst into happy tears and buried her face against his arm. "Dark have been my dreams of late," Théoden told them, staring down at his trembling hands. 

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better if they grasped your sword," Gandalf said kindly, and the door-guard rushed forward with the king's sword laying reverently across his arms.

Théoden picked it up, gazing at the gleaming metal and gems, and Grima whimpered in fear, struggling to get out from under Gimli's boot. Slowly, deliberately, Théoden turned to face his onetime advisor. With an impressive lurch, Grima pushed Gimli away and leapt to his feet, running for the door.

With a shout of rage, Théoden dashed after him, the Fellowship in pursuit. Outside, Buffy saw that Grima had tripped over his own feet and tumbled down the steps. Théoden followed, murder in his eye, but Aragorn put a placating hand on the king's arm.

"Let him go, my lord," he urged. "Enough blood has been spilled on his behalf."

Grima took advantage of Théoden's hesitation to jump up and shove through the crowd, grabbing the first horse he could and riding hell-for-leather out of Edoras. Théoden slowly sheathed his sword as someone in the crowd shouted, "Hail, King-king!"

Soon, everyone was shouting it, and Buffy found herself kneeling between Aragorn and Gimli as Boromir tugged Dawn down beside him. Théoden smiled, and then turned to Éowyn . "Where is Théodred? Where is my son?"

~ * ~

"Poor Théoden," Dawn said to Buffy, dunking her head under the surface of the water to rinse out the soap. "Poor Éowyn ."

They were in a large room, each in a big wooden tub filled with steaming water, and the scent of honeysuckle filled the air.

"Hm," Buffy said noncommittally, slouching lower into the silky water. Her heart ached for Théoden, but as for Éowyn —she wasn't sure what to think. She was fiercely loyal to her uncle and kingdom, that was true, but… Buffy had seen the looks the woman had given Aragorn, hungry looks. It made her uneasy.

"Are you done yet?" Dawn asked, snapping her out of her reverie, and she looked up to see Dawn had gotten out, dried off, and dressed while Buffy was woolgathering. "You're gonna get all pruney." She grinned, and started brushing her hair dry. "Although I bet Legolas wouldn't mind, even if you were a big ol' prune."

Buffy glared at her sister, and stood up, reaching for a drying cloth. "I happen to know that's the only dress you have," she said calmly, toweling her skin dry. "Wouldn't it be a shame if I pushed you into the tub and you had nothing clean to wear tonight, and instead of feasting with the rest of us, you had to stay in your room and sulk?"

Dawn smirked. "Wouldn't bother me any," she retorted, the motion of her arms smooth as she drew the brush through her long chestnut hair. "I'll just get Boromir to keep me company. Hm, what could the two of us do in a bedroom together, while everyone else in the city is eating and dancing the night away?"

Buffy glared harder and tugged on a filmy white chemise, then a gown of silky-soft golden-brown wool. "I **told** you. No talking about the sex near me, I'm squeamish." She shook her damp hair out. "Think I should lop some of it off? I only kept the last foot or so because it was still blonde."

Dawn bit her lip, thinking. "Yeah, I think so. It'll look healthier, and be easier to care for."

One of the serving women stepped forward with a wicked-looking pair of shears, and with a few snips, the blond strands fell to the floor.

"Hm, lighter!" Buffy said, twirling. Her hair now only came to just below her hips, a wavy gleaming mass the colour of dark honey. "It'll take less time to dry, too. Yay me!"

Dawn laughed. "C'mere, let me brush it dry so we can eat sometime this year."

Entering Meduseld a half-hour later, Buffy and Dawn were both struck suddenly shy. The hall was **huge**, and filled with hundreds of people, of whom they only knew five. Dawn's hand crept into Buffy's, and she squeezed it back with what she hoped was reassurance.

"Do you even **see** them?" Dawn asked, impatient to see Boromir again, and eat.

"How would I know?" Buffy answered grumpily. "You're the tall one, look around."

Dawn rose up on tiptoes and craned her neck. "I think I see Legolas' hair. Oh! And Gimli's beard."

Buffy laughed, and let her sister tug her down the aisle. "Thank God for landmarks, huh?"

The men of the Fellowship stood when the women reached the table. 

"Visions of loveliness," Gimli said gruffly, kissing their hands, while Aragorn and Gandalf smiled and nodded politely. Legolas murmured a compliment as he bowed over Dawn's hand, and said nothing  to Buffy, but it wasn't necessary—the frank appreciation in his crystalline eyes brought a rosy blush to her cheeks. 

Boromir's eyes, however, were only for Dawn. "You are an angel," he said breathlessly. "Come, sit by me."

Buffy took the seat Legolas indicated beside him, and beamed a smile at her scrubbed and laundered compatriots. Even Gimli's beard looked freshly combed and braided. "I am very, very proud of you all," she announced. "Did you use the soap I gave you?"

Aragorn coughed. "Um, no. We were able to obtain something less… feminine."

Buffy laughed, and leaned close to Legolas to sniff him, then jolted in shock. He smelled like heaven and hell all rolled into one, like rain and trees and cinnamon and leather and… "Oh, my God," she moaned, and leaned closer, sniffing harder. "What **is** that?" 

"Buffy, you're gonna make yourself hyperventilate," Dawn warned, staring at her sister. "What are you doing?"

"Dawn, you've got to **smell** him!" Buffy said, her pupils dilated. "Do the rest of you smell like this?" She leaned toward Gandalf on her other side, but he leaned away, a look of apprehension on his face.

Dawn moved as if to smell Legolas, but Boromir wrapped his arm firmly around her waist. "I don't think that is necessary," he said repressively. "You may sniff me." Dawn happily indulged.

Buffy turned back to Legolas, and saw the elf 's cheeks held a very pretty, faint blush of pink as he stared at the tabletop. "It's just you," she said as she realized, and he nodded shortly. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"It is nothing," he said tightly. "I am not embarrassed."

She frowned in confusion. "Then why are you blushing?"

He turned to face her, and her mouth dropped open to see his eyes blazing with desire. "To know you are scenting me like a bitch in heat is very arousing," he murmured in her ear, so quietly only she could hear him. "Now sit quietly unless you want me to carry you from the hall and take you in the corridor, against the wall."

Buffy swallowed the lump in her throat, and wondered if lust could actually catch her on fire. The image of him pressing her into the stone wall, his lean body moving sinuously against hers, his eyes burning into hers as his heavenly scent swirled around them, rose in her mind and for a crazed moment she almost grabbed him and yanked him to that corridor herself.

But then the food arrived, and her stomach growled, and Aragorn coughed loudly to get her attention, and the haze of yearning faded to a level she could at least function over. Mechanically she lifted her fork and knife, exquisitely aware of the elf to her left. _Oh_, she moaned in her head, _his leg against mine is so warm… and he smells soooo good…_

"Dagnir," Aragorn addressed her. 

"I'm **not **turned on!" she lied blatantly, dropping her utensils with a clatter to the plate, and then blushed violently as Dawn collapsed against Boromir, laughing hysterically. She looked frantically around the table and saw the men were watching her in puzzlement, with the exception of Legolas, who had a tiny, knowing smile playing on his lips. "I mean, yes?" _Thank God they don't understand Earth slang,_ she thought.

"We ride tomorrow for Helms Deep, a fortress. We have reason to believe an army of Uruk-hai and orcs advances upon it. I know **you** will join us, but…" He looked pointedly at Dawn, who was once again peaking quietly with Boromir at the other end of the table. "Your sister's battle skills are not adequate. I fear for her safety."

Buffy nodded. She'd been worrying about the same thing. "I know. Is there somewhere she can go, where she'd be safe?"

"Éowyn  will be bringing the people of Edoras to Dunharrow," Gandalf suggested. "It is not far from here, and should be quite secure."

"I'll talk to her after we eat," Buffy agreed. "Thanks for thinking of her, Aragorn."

He inclined his head to her, and she was struck with how regal the motion was. "You really are a king, aren't you," she asked admiringly, but her smile faded when she saw the droop of his shoulders. "Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown," she recited, and smiled at the appreciation in his eyes at the elegance of the expression.

"Uneasy, indeed," he agreed with a lopsided grin. "There are days I long to be just Strider the ranger, once more, but there is no escape from destiny."

"Don't I know it," Buffy grumbled. "You at least get a crown and a throne and people to call you 'your majesty'. All I ever get is attempts on my life and a lame nickname."

"When I am crowned, I will make you a knight of the realm and give you a fine title," Aragorn told her with a smile. "All shall behold you with respect and love, and there will be much groveling and bending of knee to you."

"It's good to be friends with the king!" Buffy said, and raised her goblet to him. "To Aragorn, son of Arathorn!" There was cheering, and much drinking deeply of the good Edoras wine.

"To Théoden, king of Rohan!" exclaimed a clear voice, and Buffy looked to see Éowyn  standing beside her uncle, her goblet lifted high. "To the memory of Théodred!" More cheering, and more drinking.

"Whew, no more for me," Buffy said, her hands pressed to her flushed, hot cheeks. "I'll barely be able to stagger to bed as it is." Legolas didn't say a word, didn't even look her way, but yet she still felt… something, a current of awareness, run from him to her. She concentrated on breathing, and kept eating, no longer hungry but needing something to distract her from him. 

Finally, blessedly, the meal was over and the tables were cleared away. "Time for dancing!" someone cried. 

"Dancing?" Buffy felt her stomach knot with dread. 

"Dancing!" Gimli exclaimed, a wide smile splitting his beard, and Dawn clapped happily when the music began.

"I don't know what to do!" she said to Boromir, eyes glowing. "Will you teach me?"

"Anything you want to know," he promised fervently as the music was struck up and she tugged him onto the floor.

"You do not like dancing?" Aragorn asked Buffy teasingly. "Do not tell me that you will sit on the side, while even Gandalf makes merry." And sure enough, Gandalf had taken the hand of a pretty matron and was leading her through the intricate steps of the dance.

"I'm just not that good at formal dancing like this. Really more of a freestyle dancer," Buffy said nervously. It was true—she could never remember all the steps, the motions, where she was supposed to go. It was much easier back in the Bronze, where she could just fling her arms over her head and wiggle as she pleased to the music. Here, there were rules and responsibilities, and people were depending on her to do exactly the right thing, at exactly the right time… "Too much stress," she said finally.

Aragorn just grinned at her and allowed Éowyn to pull him into the dance, leaving Buffy standing with Legolas. Gimli had deserted them at first opportunity and was skipping with great enthusiasm beside Dawn, who laughed uproariously at the dwarf's antics while Boromir watched, smiling, from the side. Buffy felt anxious, alone with the elf for the first time since he had kissed her in Fangorn. The attraction she'd felt for him from the beginning had begun to blossom into something she wasn't sure she was ready for, but which she strongly suspected she would be helpless to resist or fend off. 

"She is happy here," Legolas said quietly, drawing her attention outward again.

"Yes," Buffy replied, relieved to be on neutral conversational ground. "I was worried about that. I thought maybe I should leave her in Lórien until this was all over with the Ring. I know she doesn't much like him, but Haldir would protect her—"

"Yes, let us speak of Haldir," he interrupted smoothly, and Buffy got a sinking feeling in her stomach. _Uh-oh_, she thought, _here it comes_. 


End file.
